James Whitcomb Riley 



x « l\ 




Class Y$ 76^ 

Book v Al 



a^ 6 77 = 



ARMAZINDY 



(i) 



BY THE SAME AUTHOR 

Neghborly Poems; on Friendship, Grief and 

Farm Life — Including the "Old Swimmin' Hole" 

series. 
Sketches in Prose— With occasional Poems. 
Afterwh I les— Serious and Dialect Verse. 
Pipes O' Pan— Five Sketches and Fifty Poems. 
Rhymes of Childhood— Child-Dialect and other 

Verses. 
The Flying Islands of the Night— A Fantastic 

Drama in Verse. 
Green Fields and Running Brooks— Dialect and 

Serious Poems. 
Armazindy — Hoosier Harvest Airs, Feigned Forms 

and Child Rhymes. 
Any of above, post-paid, for $1.25. 

An Old Sweetheart of Mine— Colored and Mon- 
otint Plates, 8x10 flat quarto, post-paid, $2.50. 

Published by 

The Bowen=Tlerriil Co., Indianapolis 



IN ENGLAND 



Old Fashioned Roses— Poems, Dialect and vari- 
ous, post-paid, $1.75. 

Longmans, Green & Co., London. 



ARMAZINDY 



BY 



JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY 



KS» 



INDIANAPOLIS 

THE BOWEN-MERRILL CO. 
1894 






Copyright 1894 

by 

James Whitcomb Riley 



By Transfer 

P.G, Dept, 

Mar 23 06 



(iv) 



TO 

HENRY EITEL 



nst Office De 

JAN 3 



~-~i .^. 



(v) 



CONTENTS 



armazindy i 

Natural Perversities 14 

The Old School-Chum 17 

Writin' Back to the Home-Folks 19 

The Blind Girl 21 

We Defer Things 24 

The Muskingum Valley 25 

For This Christmas 27 

A Poor Man's Wealth 28 

The Little Red Ribbon 30 

How Did You Rest, Last Night? 31 

A Good-Bye 32 

When Maimie Married 33 

This Dear Child-Hearted Woman 35 

To a Poet-Critic 36 

An Old-Timer 37 

The Silent Victors 39 

Up and Down Old Brandywine . . . . . . .45 

Three Singing Friends 50 

A Noon Lull 52 

A Windy Day 53 

My Henry 54 

The Song I Never Sing 56 

To Edgar Wilson Nye 59 

Little David 60 

Out of the Hitherwhere 61 

Rabbit in the Cross-Ties 62 

Serenade— To Nora 63 

He and I 64 

What Redress 66 

Dreamer, Say 67 

When Lide Married Him 68 

My Bride That Is to Be 70 

Ringworm Frank 73 

An Empty Glove 74 

Our Own ,76 

(vii) 



viii CONTENTS 



MAKE-BELIEVE AND CHILD-PLAY 

The Frog 79 

Twiggs and Tudens 81 

An Idyl of the King 97 

Dolores . 113 

When I do Mock 114 

My Mary 115 

Eros 118 

Orlie Wilde 119 

Leonainie 128 

To a Jilted Swain 130 

The Voices 131 

A Barefoot Boy 134 

The Youthful Patriot 135 

Ponchus Pilut 136 

a twintorette 138 

Slumber-Song 139 

The Circus-Parade 140 

Folks at Lonesoaieville 142 

The Three Jolly Hunters 143 

The Little Dog-Woggy 145 

Charms.— For Corns 147 

To Remove Freckles 148 

A Few of the Bird-Family 149 

Through Sleepy-Land 150 

The Trestle and the Buck-Saw 152 

The King of Oo-Rinktum-Jing 153 

The Toy Penny-Dog 154 

Jargon-Jingle 155 

The Great Explorer 156 

The Schoolboy's Favorite 157 

Albumania 160 

The Little Mock-Man 162 

Summer-Time and Winter-Time 164 

Home-Made Riddles 165 

The Lovely Child 167 

The Yellow-Bird 168 

Envoy 169 



ARMAZINDY 

ARMAZINDY ;— fambily name 
Ballenger, — you'll find the same, 
As her daddy answered it, 
In the old War-rickords yit, — 
And, like him, she's airnt the good 
Will o' all the neighberhood. — 
Name ain't down in History, — 
But, i jucks ! it ort to be ! 
Folks is got respec' fer her — 
Armazindy Ballenger! — 
'Specially the ones 'at knows 
Fac's o' how her story goes 
From the start: — Her father blowed 
Up — eternally furloughed— 
When the old " Sultana" bu'st, 
And sich men wuz needed wusst. — 
Armazindy, 'bout fourteen- 
Year-old then — and thin and lean 
As a kill-dee, — but — my la! — 
Blamedest nerve you ever saw! 
The girl's mother'd alius ben 
Sickly — wuz consumpted when 
Word come 'bout her husband. — So 
Folks perdicted she'd soon go — 

(i) 



ARMAZINDY 



(Kind o' grief / understand, 
Losin' my companion, — and 
Still a widower — and still 
Hinted at, like neighbers will ! ) 
So, appinted, as folks said, 
Ballenger a-bein' dead, 
Widder, 'peared-like, gradjully, 
Jes grieved after him tel she 
Died, nex' Aprile wuz a year, — 
And, in Armazindy's keer 
Leavin' the two twins, as well 
As her pore old miz'able 
Old-maid aunty 'at had ben 
Struck with palsy, and wuz then 
Jes a he'pless charge on her — 
Arma^indy Ballenger. 

Jevver watch a primrose 'bout 
Minute 'fore it blossoms out — 
Kindo' loosen-like, and blow 
Up its muscles, don't you know, 
And, all suddent, bu'st and bloom 
Out life-size? — Well, I persume 
'At's the only measure I 
Kin size Armazindy by! — 
Jes a child, one minute, — nex', 
Woman- grown, in all respec's 



ARMAZINDY 



And intents and purposuz — 
'At's what Armazindy wuz ! 

Jes a child, I tell ye ! Yit 
She made things git up and git 
Round that little farm o' hern ! — 
Shouldered all the whole concern ; — 
Feed the stock, and milk the cows — 
Run the farm and run the bouse ! — 
Only thing she didn't do 
Wuz to plow and harvest too — 
But the house and childern took 
Lots o' keer — and had to look 
After her old fittified 
Grand-aunt. — Lord! ye could a-cried, 
Seem' Armazindy smile, 
'Peared-like, sweeter all the while ! 
And I've heerd her laugh and say: — 
' Jes afore Pap marched away, 
He says ' I depend on you, 
Armazindy, come what may — 
You must be a Soldier, too ! ' " 

Neighbers, from the fust, 'ud come — 
And she'd let 'em help her some, — 
[ Thanky, maam ! " and " Thanky, sir ! ' 
But no charity fer bet I — 



ARMAZINDY 



i She could raise the means to pay 
Fer her farm-hands ever' day 
Sich wuz needed ! " — And she could— 
In cash-money jes as good 
As farm-produc's ever brung 
Their perducer, old er young ! 
So folks humored her and smiled, 
And at last wuz rickonciled 
Fer to let her have her own 
Way about it — But a-goin' 
Past to town, they'd stop and see 

"Armazindy's fambily," 
As they'd alius laugh and say, 
And look sorry right away, 
Thinkin' of her Pap, and how 
He'd indorse his " Soldier" now! 

Course she couldn't never be 
Much in young folks' company — 
Plenty of m-vites to go, 
But das't leave the house, you know- 
'Less'n Sundays sometimes, when 
Some old Granny 'd come and 'ten' 
Things, while Armazindy las 
Got away fer Church er " Class." 
Most the youngsters liked her — and 
'Twuzn't hard to understand, — 



ARMAZINDY 5 



Fer, by time she wuz sixteen, 
Purtier girl you never seen — 
'Ceptin' she lacked schoolin', ner 
Couldn't rag out stylisher — 
Like some neighber-glrls, ner thumb 
On their blame melodium, 
Whilse their pore old mothers sloshed 
Round the old back-porch and washed 
Their clothes fer 'em — rubbed and scrubbed 
Fer girls 'd ort to jes ben clubbed! 

— And jes sich a girl wuz Jule 
Reddinhouse. — She'd ben to school 
At New Thessaly, i gum! — 
Fool before, but that hepped some— 
'Stablished-like more confidence 
'At she never had no sense. 
But she wuz a cunnin', sly, 
Meek and lowly sorto' lie, 
'At men-folks like me and you 
B'lieves jes 'cause we ortn't to. — 
Jes as purty as a snake, 
And as pi^en — Mercy sake ! 
Well, about them times it wuz, 
Young Sol Stephens th'ashed fer us; 
And we sent him over to 
Armazindy's place to do 



ARMAZINDY 



Her work fer her. — And-sir! Well — 
Mighty little else to tell, — 
Sol he fell in love with her — 
Armazindy Ballenger! 

Bless ye ! — 'LI of all the love 
'At I've ever yit knowed of, 
That-air case o' theirn beat all ! 
W'y, she worshiped him ! — And Sol, 
'Peared-like, could a-kissed the sod 
(Sayin' is) where that girl trod! 
Went to town, she did, and bought 
Lot o' things 'at neighbers thought 
Mighty strange fer her to buy, — 
Raal chintz dress-goods — and 'way high !- 
Cut long in the skyrt, — also 
Gaiter-pair o' shoes, you know ; 
And lace collar ; — yes, and fine 
Stylish hat, with ivy-vine 
And red ribbons, and these-'ere 
Artificial flowers and queer 
Little beads and spangles, and 
Oysturch-feathers round the band ! 
Wore 'em, Sund'ys, fer awhile — 
Kindo' went to church in style, 
Sol and Armazindy ! — Tel 
It was noised round purty well 



ARMAZINBY 



They wuz promised, — And they wuz — 
Sich news travels— well it does!— 
Pity 'at that did!— Fer jes 
That-air fac' and nothin' less 
Must a-putt it in the mind 
O' Jule Reddinhouse to find 
Out some dratted way to hatch 
Out some plan to break the match — 

'Cause she done it, — Hoivf they's none 
Knows adzac'ly what she done; 
Some claims she writ letters to 
Sol s folks, up nigh Pleasant View 
Somers— and described, you see, 

"Armazindy's fambily" — 
Hintin* : 'ef Sol married her, 
He d jes be pervidin' fer 
Them-air twins o' hern, and old 
Palsied aunt 'at couldn't hold 
Spoon to mouth, and layin' near 
Bedrid on to eighteen year, 
And still likely, 'pearantly, 
To live out the century!" 
Well— whatever plan Jule laid 
Out to reach the pint she made, 
It WUZ desper't— And she won, 
Finully. by marryun' 



ARMAZINDY 



Sol herse'f — e-lopin\ too, 
With him, like she bad to do, — 
'Cause her folks 'ud alius swore 
" Jule should never marry pore.'" 

This-here part the story I 

Alius haf to hurry by, — 

Way 'at Armazindy jes 

Drapped back in her linsey dress, 

And grabbed holt her loom, and shet 

Her jaws square. — And ef she fret 

Any 'bout it — never 'peared 

Sign 'at neighbers seed er heerd ; — 

Most folks liked her all the more — 

I know / did — certain-shore ! — 

(Course Vd knowed her Pap, and what 
Stock she come of. — Yes, and thought, 
And think yit, no man on earth 

'S worth as much as that girl's worth !) 

As fer Jule and Sol, they had 
Their sheer !— less o' good than bad !— 
Her folks let her go. — They said, 
" Spite o' them she'd made her bed 
And must sleep in it!" — But she, 
'Peared-like, didn't sleep so free 
As she ust to— ner so late % 
Ner so fine. I'm here to state!— 



ARMAZINDY 



Sol wuz pore, of course, and she 
Wuzn't ust to poverty— 
Ner she didn't 'pear to jes 
'Filiate with lonesomeness, — 
'Cause Sol he wuz off and out 
With his th'asher nigh about 
Half the time ; er, season done, 
He'd be off mi-anderun 
Round the country, here and there, 
Swoppin' hosses. Well, that-air 
Kindo' livin' didn't suit 
Jule a bit ! — and then, to boot, 
She had now the keer o' two 
Her own childern — and to do 
Her own work and cookin' — yes, 
And sometimes fer hands, I guess, 
Well as fambily of her own. — 
Cut her pride clean to the bone ! 
So how could the whole thing end? — 
She set down, one night, and penned 
A short note, like — 'at she sewed 
On the childern 's blanket — blowed 
Out the candle — pulled the door 
To close after her — and, shore- 
Footed as a cat is, dumb 
In a rigg there and left home, 



io ARMAZ1KDY 



With a man a-drivin' who 
'Loved her ever fond and true," 
As her note went on to say. 

When Sol read the thing next day. 

Really didn't 'pear to be 
Extry waste o' sympathy 
Over Sol — pore feller! — Yit, 
Sake o' them-air little bit 
O' two orphants — as you might 
Call 'em then, by law and right, — 
Sol's old friends wuz sorry, and 
Tried to hold him out their hand 
Same as alius : But he'd flinch — 
Tel, jes 'peared like, inch by inch, 
Ke let all holts go; and so 
Took to drinkin', don't you know, — 
Tel, to make a long tale short, 
He wuz fuller than he ort 
To a-ben, at work one day 
'Bout his th'asher, and give way, 
Kindo'-like, and fell and ketched 
In the beltin'. 

Rid and fetched 

Armazindy to him. — He 
Begged me to. — But time 'at she 
Reached his side, he smiled and tried 
To speak — Couldn't. So he died 



ARMAZINDY n 



Hands all turned and left her there 
And went somers else — somewhere. 
Last, she called us back — in clear 
Voice as man 'II ever hear — 
Clear and stiddy, 'peared to me, 
As her old Pap's ust to be. — 
Give us orders what to do 
'Bout the body — hepped us, too. 
So it wuz, Sol Stephens passed 
'N Armazindy's hands at last. 
More'n that, she claimed 'at she 
Had consent from him to be 
Mother to his children—now 
'Thout no parents anyhow. 

Yes-sir! and she's got 'em, too,- 
Folks saw nothin' else 'ud do — 
So they let her have her way— 
Like she's doin' yit to-day ! 
Years now, I've ben coaxin' her — 
Armazindy Ballenger — 
To in-large her fambily 
Jes one more by takin' me — 
Which I'm feared she never will, 
Though I'm lectioneerin' still. 



12 THE OLD TRUNDLE-BED 



THE OLD TRUNDLE-BED 

O THE old trundle-bed where F slept when a boy ! 

What canopied king might not covet the joy? 

The glory and peace of that slumber of mine, 

Like a long, gracious rest in the bosom divine: 

The quaint, homely couch, hidden close from the light, 

But daintily drawn from its hiding at night. 

O a nest of delight, from the foot to the head, 

Was the queer little, dear little, old trundle-bed ! 

O the old trundle-bed, where I wondering saw 

The stars through the window, and listened with awe 

To the sigh of the winds as they tremblingly crept 

Through the trees where the robin so restlessly slept: 

Where I heard the low, murmurous chirp of the wren, 

And the katydid listlessly chirrup again, 

Till my fancies grew faint and were drowsily led 

Through the maze of the dreams of the old trundle-bed. 

O the old trundle-bed ! O the old trundle-bed ! 
With its plump little pillow, and old-fashioned spread ; 
Its snowy-white sheets, and the blankets above, 
Smoothed down and tucked round with the touches of 
love ; 



THE OLD TRUNDLE-BED 13 

The voice of my mother to lull me to sleep 
With the old fairy-stories my memories keep 
Still fresh as the lilies that bloom o'er the head 
Once bowed o'er my own in the old trundle-bed. 



14 NATURAL PERVERSITIES 

NATURAL PERVERSITIES 

I AM not prone to moralize 

In scientific doubt 
On certain facts that Nature tries 

To puzzle us about, — 
For I am no philosopher 

Of wise elucidation, 
But speak of things as they occur, 

From simple observation. 

I notice little things— to wit: — 

1 never missed a train 
Because I didn't run for it; 

I never knew it rain 
That my umbrella wasn't lent, — 

Or, when in my possession, 
The sun but wore, to all intent, 

A jocular expression. 

I never knew a creditor 

To dun me for a debt 
But I was "cramped" or "busted"; or 

I never knew one yet, 
When I had plenty in my purse, 

To make the least invasion, — 
As I, accordingly perverse, 

Have courted no occasion. 



NATURAL PERVERSITIES 15 

Nor do I claim to comprehend 

What Nature has in view 
In giving us the very friend 

To trust we oughtn't to.— 
But so it is : The trusty gun 

Disastrously exploded 
Is always sure to be the one 

We didn't think was loaded. 

Our moaning is another's mirth, — 

And what is worse by half, 
We say the funniest thing on earth 

And never raise a laugh : 
Mid friends that love us overwell, 

And sparkling jests and liquor, 
Our hearts somehow are liable 

To melt in tears the quicker. 

We reach the wrong when most we seek 

The right ; in like effect, 
We stay the strong and not the weak — 

Do most when we neglect- 
Neglected genius— truth be said— 

As wild and quick as tinder, 
The more you seek to help ahead 

The more you seem to hinder. 



16 NATURAL PERVERSITIES 

I've known the least the greatest, too — 

And, on the selfsame plan, 
The biggest fool I ever knew 

Was quite a little man : 
We find we ought, and then we won't — 

We prove a thing, then doubt it, — 
Know everything but when we don't 

Know anything about it. 



THE OLD SCHOOL-CHUM 17 



THE OLD SCHOOL-CHUM 

HE puts the poem by, to say 

His eyes are not themselves to-day! 

A sudden glamour o'er his sight — 
A something vague, indefinite — 

An oft-recurring blur that blinds 
The printed meaning of the lines, 

And leaves the mind all dusk and dim 
In swimming darkness — strange to him ! 

It is not childishness, I guess, — 
Yet something of the tenderness 

That used to wet his lashes when 
A boy seems troubling him again ; — 

The old emotion, sw r eet and wild, 
That drove him truant when a child, 

That he might hide the tears that fell 
Above the lesson— " Little Nell." 

And so it is he puts aside 
The poem he has vainly tried 
2 



18 THE OLD SCHOOL-CHUM 

To follow; and, as one who sighs 
In failure, through a poor disguise 

Of smiles, he dries his tears, to say 
His eyes are not themselves to-day. 



WRITW BACK TO THE HOME-FOLKS 10 



WRITIN' BACK TO THE HOME-FOLKS 

MY dear old friends — It jes beats all, 

The way you write a letter 
So's ever' last line beats the first, 

And ever' next-un's better! — 
W'y, ever ' fool-thing you putt down 

You make so intem/in', 
A feller, readin' of em all, 

Can't tell which is the best-un. 

It's all so comfortin' and good, 

'Pears-like I almost hear ye 
And git more sociabler, you know, 

And hitch my cheer up near ye 
And jes smile on ye like the sun 

Acrosst the whole per-rairies 
In Aprile when the thaw's begun 

And country couples marries. 

It's all so good-old-fashioned like 

To talk jes like we're thinkin\ 
Without no hidin' back 0' fans 

And giggle-un and winkin', 
Ner sizin' how each-other's dressed — 

Like some is alius doin', — 
"Is Marthy Ellen's basque ben turned 

Er shore-enough a new-un ! " — 



20 IVRITIN' BACK TO THE HOME-FOLKS 

Er "ef Steve's city-friend haint jes 

'A Uetie kindo'-sorto' "— 
Er "wears them-air blame eye-glasses 

Jes 'cause he hadn't ort to?" — 
And so straight on, dad-libitum, 

Tel all of us feels, someway, 
Jes like our "comp'ny" wuz the best 

When we git up to come 'way! 

That's why I like old friends like you,— 

Jes 'cause you're so abidin\ — 
Ef I was built to live "fir keeps," 

My principul residin' 
Would be amongst the folks 'at kep' 

Me alius thmkin' of 'em, 
And sorto' eechin' all the time 

To tell 'em how I love 'em. — 

Sich folks, you know, I jes love so 

1 wouldn't live without 'em, 
Er couldn't even drap asleep 

But what I dreamp* about 'em, — 
And ef we minded God, I guess 

We'd all love one-another 
Jes like one fam'bly,— me and Pap 

And Madaline and Mother. 



THE BLIND GIRL 21 



THE BLIND GIRL 

IF I might see his face to-day!— 
He is so happy now ! — To hear 
His laugh is like a roundelay — 

So ringing-sweet and clear! 
His step — I heard it long before 
He bounded through the open door 
To tell his marriage. — Ah! so kind — 
So good he is!— And I— so blind! 

But thus he always came to me — 
Me, first of all, he used to bring 
His sorrow to — his ecstasy — 
His hopes and everything; 
And if I joyed with him or wept, 
It was not long the music slept, — 
And if he sung, or if I played— 
Or both, — we were the braver made. 

I grew to know and understand 

His every word at every call, — 
The gate-latch hinted, and his hand 

In mine confessed it all : 
He need not speak one word to me — 
He need not sigh — I need not see, — 
But just the one touch of his palm, 
And I would answer — song or psalm. 

'Post Off 



22 THE BLIND GIRL 

He wanted recognition — name — 

He hungered so for higher things,— 
The altitudes of power and fame, 

And all that fortune brings: 
Till, with his great heart fevered thus, 
And aching as impetuous, 
I almost wished sometimes that he 
Were blind and patient made, like me. 

But he has won! — I knew he would — 

Once in the mighty Eastern mart, 
I knew his music only could 

Be sung in every heart! 
And when he proudly sent me this 
From out the great metropolis, 
1 bent above the graven score 
And, weeping, kissed it o'er and o'er.— 

And yet not blither sing the birds 

Than this glad melody,— the tune 
As sweetly wedded with the words 

As flowers with middle- June; 
Had he not told me, I had known 
It was composed of love alone— 
His love for her. — And she can see 
His happy face eternally! — 



THE BLIND GIRL 23 



While /— O God, forgive, I pray! — 

Forgive me that I did so long 
To look upon his face to-day! — 
I know the wish was wrong. — 
Yea, I am thankful that my sight 
Is shielded safe from such delight : — 
I can pray better, with this blur 
Of blindness — both for him and her. 



24 PROCRASTINATION 



WE DEFER THINGS 

WE say and we say and we say, 
We promise, engage and declare, 

Till a year from tomorrow is yesterday, 
And yesterday is— Where? 



THE MUSKINGUM VALLEY 25 



THE MUSKINGUM VALLEY 

THE Muskingum Valley !— How longin' the gaze 

A feller throws back on its long summer-days, 

When the smiles of its blossoms and my smiles wuz one- 

And-the-same, from the rise to the set 0' the sun : 

Wher' the hills sloped as soft as the dawn down to noon, 

And the river run by like an old fiddle-tune, 

And the hours glided past as the bubbles 'ud glide, 

All so loaferin'-like, 'long the path 0' the tide. 

In the Muskingum Valley— it Reared like the skies 
Looked lovin' on me as my own mother's eyes, 
While the laughin'-sad song of the stream seemed to be 
Like a lullaby angels was wastin' on me — 
Tel, swimmin' the air, like the gossamer's thread, 
'Twixt the blue underneath and the blue overhead, 
My thoughts went a-stray in that so- to- speak realm 
Wher' Sleep bared her breast as a piller fer them. 

In the Muskingum Valley, though far, far a-way, 
I know that the winter is bleak there to-day- 
No bloom ner perfume on the brambles er trees — 
Wher' the buds used to bloom, now the icicles freeze.— 
That the grass is all hid 'long the side of the road 
Wher' the deep snow has drifted and shifted and blowed— 
And I feel in my life the same changes is there,— 
The frost in my heart, and the snow in my hair. 



26 THE MUSKINGUM VALLEY 

But, Muskingum Valley ! my memory sees 

Not the white on the ground, but the green in the trees — 

Not the froze'-over gorge, but the current, as clear 

And warm as the drop that has jes trickled here ; 

Not the choked-up ravine, and the hills topped with snow, 

But the grass and the blossoms I knowed long ago 

When my little bare feet wundered down wrier' the stream 

In the Muskingum Valley flowed on like a dream. 



FOR THIS CHRISTMAS 27 



FOR THIS CHRISTMAS 

YE old-time stave that pealeth out 

To Christmas revelers all, 
At tavern-tap and wassail bout, 

And in ye banquet hall.- 
Whiles ye old burden rings again, 

Add yet ye verse, as due: 
God bless you, merry gentlemen" — 

t/lnd gentlewomen, too! 



28 a POOR MAN'S WEALTH 



A POOR MAN'S WEALTH 

A POOR man? Yes, I must confess- 
No wealth of gold do I possess; 
No pastures fine, with grazing kine, 
Nor fields of waving grain are mine; 
No foot of fat or fallow land 
Where rightfully my feet may stand 
The while I claim it as my own — 
By deed and title, mine alone. 

Ah, poor indeed ! perhaps you say — 
But spare me your compassion, pray!— 
When I ride not— with you — I walk 
In Nature's company, and talk 
With one who will not slight or slur 
The child forever dear to her — 
And one who answers back, be sure, 
With smile for smile, though I am poor. 

And while communing thus, I count 
An inner wealth of large amount, — 
The wealth of honest purpose blent 
With Penury's environment, — 
The wealth of owing naught to-day 
But debts that I would gladly pay, 
With wealth of thanks still unexpressed 
With cumulative interest— 



A POOR MAN'S WEALTH 2g 

A wealth of patience and content — 
For all my ways improvident ; 
A faith still fondly exercised — 
For all my plans unrealized ; 
A wealth of promises that still, 
Howe'er I fail, I hope to fill ; 
A wealth of charity for those 
Who pity me my ragged clothes. 

A poor man ? Yes, I must confess — 
No wealth of gold do I possess ; 
No pastures fine, with grazing kine, 
Nor fields of waving grain are mine ; 
But ah, my friend! I've wealth, no end! 
For millionaires might condescend 
To bend the knee and envy me 
This opulence of poverty. 



3o THE LITTLE RED RIBBON 



THE LITTLE RED RIBBON 

THE little red ribbon, the ring and the rose! 

The summertime comes, and the summertime goes— 

And never a blossom in all of the land 

As white as the gleam of her beckoning hand ! 

The long winter months, and the glare of the snows ; 
The little red ribbon, the ring and the rose ! 
And never a glimmer of sun in the skies 
As bright as the light of her glorious eyes ! 

Dreams only are true ; but they fade and are gone — 
For her face is not here when I waken at dawn ; 
The little red ribbon, the ring and the rose 
Mine only ; hers only the dream and repose. 

I am weary of waiting, and weary of tears, 
And my heart wearies, too, all these desolate years, 
Moaning over the one only song that it knows,— 
The little red ribbon, the ring and the rose ! 



"HOW DID YOU REST, LAST NIGHT? " 31 

"HOW DID YOU REST, LAST NIGHT?" 

" HOW did you rest, last night?"— 

I've heard my gran'pap say 
Them words a thousand times — that's right — 

Jes them words thataway! 
As punctchul-like as morning dast 

To ever heave in sight 
Gran'pap 'ud alius haf to ast— 
"How did you rest, last night?" 

Us young-uns used to grin, 

At breakfast, on the sly, 
And mock the wobble of his chin 

And eyebrows helt so high 
And kind: "How did you rest, last night?" 

We'd mumble and let on 
Our voices trimbled, and our sight 

Was dim, and hearin' gone. 
********** 
Bad as I used to be, 

All I'm a-wantin' is 
As puore and ca'm a sleep fer me 

And sweet a sleep as his ! 
And so I pray, on Jedgment Day 

To wake, and with its light 
See his face dawn, and hear him say — 
"How did you rest, last night?" 



32 A GOOD-BYE 



A GOOD-BYE 

" GOOD-BYE, my friend ! " 
He takes her hand— 
The pressures blend: 
They understand 

But vaguely why, with drooping eye, 
Each moans— " Good-bye ! — Good-bye ! " 

"Dear friend, good-bye! " 

she could smile 
If she might cry 

A little while! — 

She says, " I ought to smile — but I — 
Forgive me — There ! — Good-bye ! M 

"' Good-bye V Ah, no : 

1 hate/' says he, 

" These ' good-byes ' so ! " 
"And /," says she, 

"Detest them so — why, I should die 
Were this a real ' good-bye ! ' " 



IV HEN MAMIE MARRIED 33 



WHEN MAIMIE MARRIED 

WHEN Maimie married Charley Brown, 

Joy took possession of the town ; 

The young folks swarmed in happy throngs- 

They rang the bells — they caroled songs — 

They carpeted the steps that led 

Into the church where they were wed ; 

And up and down the altar-stair 

They scattered roses everywhere; 

When, in her orange-blossom crown, 

Queen Maimie married Charley Brown. 

So beautiful she was, it seemed 

Men, looking on her, dreamed they dreamed ; 

And he, the holy man who took 

Her hand in his, so thrilled and shook, 

The gargoyles round the ceiling's rim 

Looked down and leered and grinned at him 

Until he half forgot his part 

Of sanctity, and felt his heart 

Beat worldward through his sacred gown — 

When Maimie married Charley Brown. 

The bridesmaids kissed her, left and right — 

Fond mothers hugged her with delight — 

Young men of twenty-seven were seen 

To blush like lads of seventeen, 
3 



34 WHEN MAMIE MARRIED 

The while they held her hand to quote 
Such sentiments as poets wrote.— 
Yea, all the heads that Homage bends 
Were bowed to her— But O my friends, 
My hopes went up — my heart went down- 
When Maimie married— Charley Brown ! 



'THIS DEAR CHILD-HEARTED W OMAN" 35 



" THIS DEAR CHILD-HEARTED WOMAN THAT 
IS DEAD" 

I 
THIS woman, with the dear child-heart, 

Ye mourn as dead, is — where and what? 
With faith as artless as her Art, 

I question not, — 

But dare divine, and feel, and know 
Her blessedness— as hath been writ 
In allegory. — Even so 

I fashion it: — 

II 
A stately figure, rapt and awed 

In her new guise of Angelhood, 
Still lingered, wistful — knowing God 

Was very good. — 

Her thought's fine whisper filled the pause ; 

And, listening, the Master smiled, 
And lo ! the stately angel was 

—A little child. 



36 TO A POET-CRITIC 



TO A POET-CRITIC 

YES, — the bee sings — I confess it- 
Sweet as honey — Heaven bless it!- 
Yit he'd be a sweeter singer 
Ef he didn't have no stinger. 



AU OLD-TIMER 37 



AN OLD-TIMER 

HERE where the wayward stream 
Is restful as a dream, 

And where the banks o'erlook 
A pool from out whose deeps 
My pleased face upward peeps, 
I cast my hook. 

Silence and sunshine blent! — 
A Sabbath-like content 

Of wood and wave ; — a free- 
Hand landscape grandly wrought 
Of Summer's brightest thought 
And mastery. — 

For here form, light and shade, 
And color — all are laid 

With skill so rarely fine, 
The eye may even see 
The ripple tremblingly 

Lip at the line. 

I mark the dragonfly 
Flit waveringly by 
In ever-veering flight, 



38 AN OLD-TIMER 



Till, in a hush profound, 
I see him eddy round 

The "cork" and— Might! 

Ho ! with the boy's faith then 
Brimming my heart again, 

And knowing, soon or late, 
The " nibble" yet shall roll 
Its thrills along the pole, 

I — breathless — wait. 



THE SILENT VICTORS 39 



THE SILENT VICTORS 
May 30, 1878 

" Dying for victory, cheer on cheer 
Thundered on his eager ear." 

—Charles L. Holstein 

I 

DEEP, tender, firm and true, the Nation's heart 
Throbs for her gallant heroes passed away, 

Who in grim Battle's drama played their part, 
And slumber here today.— 

Warm hearts that beat their lives out at the shrine 
Of Freedom, while our country 7 held its breath 

As brave battalions wheeled themselves in line 
And marched upon their death : 

When Freedom's Flag, its natal wounds scarce healed, 
Was torn from peaceful winds and flung again 

To shudder in the storm of battle-field — 
The elements of men, — 

When every star that glittered was a mark 
For Treason's ball, and every rippling bar 

Of red and white was sullied with the dark 
And purple stain of war: 



4° THE SILENT VICTORS 

When angry guns, like famished beasts of prey, 
Were howling o'er their gory feast of lives, 

And sending dismal echoes far away 
To mothers, maids, and wives: — 

The mother, kneeling in the empty night, 
With pleading hands uplifted for the son 

Who, even as she prayed, had fought the fight — 
The victory had won : 

The wife, with trembling hand that wrote to say 
The babe was waiting for the sire's caress — 

The letter meeting that upon the way, — 
The babe was fatherless. 

The maiden, with her lips, in fancy, pressed 
Against the brow once dewy with her breath, 

Now lying numb, unknown, and uncaressed 
Save by the dews of death : 

II 

What meed of tribute can the poet pay 
The Soldier, but to trail the ivy-vine 

Of idle rhyme above his grave today 
In epitaph design? — 

Or wreathe with laurel-words the icy brows 
That ache no longer with a dream of fame, 

But, pillowed lowly in the narrow house, 
Renown'd beyond the name. 



THE SILENT VICTORS 41 

The dewy teardrops of the night may fall, 
And tender morning with her shining hand 

May brush them from the grasses green and tall 
That undulate the land. — 

Yet song of Peace nor din of toil and thrift, 
Nor chanted honors, with the flowers we heap, 

Can yield us hope the Hero's head to lift 
Out of its dreamless sleep : 

The dear old flag, whose faintest flutter flies 
A stirring echo through each patriot breast, 

Gan never coax to life the folded eyes 
That saw its wrongs redressed — 

That watched it waver when the fight was hot, 
And blazed with newer courage to its aid, 

Regardless of the shower of shell and shot 
Through which the charge was made ; — 

And when, at last, they saw it plume its wings, 
Like some proud bird in stormy element, 

And soar untrammeled on its wanderings, 
They closed in death, content. 

Ill 

O mother, you who miss the smiling face 
Of that dear boy who vanished from your sight, 

And left you weeping o'er the vacant place 
He used to fill at night, — 



42 THE SILENT VICTORS 

Who left you dazed, bewildered, on a day 
That echoed wild huzzas, and roar of guns 

That drowned the farewell words you tried to say 
To incoherent ones ; — 

Be glad and proud you had the life to give- 
Be comforted through all the years to come, — 

Your country has a longer life to live, 
Your son a better home. 

widow, weeping o'er the orphaned child, 
Who only lifts his questioning eyes to send 

A keener pang to grief unreconciled, — 
Teach him to comprehend 

He had a father brave enough to stand 
Before the fire of Treason's blazing gun, 

That, dying, he might will the rich old land 
Of Freedom to his son. 

And, maiden, living on through lonely years 

In fealty to love's enduring ties, — 
With strong faith gleaming through the tender tears 

That gather in your eyes, 

Look up! and own, in gratefulness of prayer, 
Submission to the will of Heaven's High Host:— 

1 see your Angel-soldier pacing there, 
Expectant at his post.— 



THE SILENT VICTORS 43 

I see the rank and file of armies vast, 
That muster under one supreme control ; 

I hear the trumpet sound the signal-blast— 
The calling of the roll — 

The grand divisions falling into line 
And forming, under voice of One alone 

Who gives command, and joins with tone divine 
The hymn that shakes the Throne. 

IV 

And thus, in tribute to the forms that rest 
In their last camping-ground, we strew the bloom 

And fragrance of the flowers they loved the best, 
In silence o'er the tomb. 

With reverent hands we twine the Hero's wreath 
And clasp it tenderly on stake or stone 

That stands the sentinel for each beneath 
Whose glory is our own. 

While in the violet that greets the sun, 
We see the azure eye of some lost boy; 

And in the rose the ruddy cheek of one 
We kissed in childish joy,— 



44 THE SILENT VICTORS 

Recalling, haply, when he marched away, 
He laughed his loudest though his eyes were wet. 

The kiss he gave his mother's brow that day 
Is there and burning yet: 

And through the storm of grief around her tossed, 
One ray of saddest comfort she may see, — 

Four hundred thousand sons like hers were lost 
To weeping Liberty. 



But draw aside the drapery of gloom, 
And let the sunshine chase the clouds away 

And gild with brighter glory every tomb 
We decorate today: 

And in the holy silence reigning round, 
While prayers of perfume bless the atmosphere, 

Where loyal souls of love and faith are found, 
Thank God that Peace is here! 

And let each angry impulse that may start, 
Be smothered out of every loyal breast ; 

And, rocked within the cradle of the heart, 
Let every sorrow rest. 



UP AND DOWN OLD BRANDYIVINE 45 



UP AND DOWN OLD BRANDYWINE 

UP and down old Brandy wine, 

In the days 'at's past and gone — 
With a dad-burn hook-and-line 
And a saplin'-pole — i swawn ! 

I've had more fun, to the square 
Inch, than ever any where ! 
Heaven to come can't discount mine 
Up and down old Brandywine ! 

Haint no sense in. wish in' — yit 
Wisht to goodness I could jes 
" Gee " the blame world round and git 
Back to that old happiness ! — 

Kindo' drive back in the shade 
" The old Covered Bridge " there laid 
'Crosst the crick, and sorto' soak 
My soul over, hub and spoke ! 

Honest, now ! — it haint no dream 

'At I'm wanting — but thefac's 
As they wuz ; the same old stream, 

And the same old times, i jacks ! — 



46 UP AND DOWN OLD BRANDY IV IN E 

Gim me back my bare feet — and 
Stonebruise too !— And scratched and tanned ! 
And let hottest dog-days shine 
Up and down old Brandywine ! 

In and on betwixt the trees 

'Long the banks, pour down yer noon, 
Kindo' curdled with the breeze 
And the yallerhammer's tune ; 

And the smokin', chokin' dust 

O' the turnpike at its wusst — 

Saturdays, say, when it seems 

Road's jes jammed with country teams ! — 

Whilse the old town, fur away 

'Crosst the hazy pastur'-land, 
Dozed-like in the heat o' day 
Peaceful' as a hired hand. 

Jolt the gravel th'ough the floor 
O' the old bridge!— grind and roar 
With yer blame percession-line — 
Up and down old Brandywine ! 

Souse me and my new straw-hat 

Off the foot-log !— what / care?— 

Fist shoved in the crown o' that- 
Like the old Clown ust to wear. 



UP AND DOWN OLD BRANDY WINE 47 

Wouldn't swop it fer a' old 
Gin-u-wine raal crown o' gold ! — 
Keep her King ef you'll gim me 
Jes the boy I ust to be ! 

Spill my fishin'-worms ! er steal 

My best " goggle-eye !" — but you 
Can't lay hands on joys I feel 
Nibblin' like they ust to do ! 
So, in memory, to-day 
Same old ripple lips away 
At my cork and saggin' line, 
Up and down old Brandy wine ! 

There the logs is, round the hill, 

Where " Old Irvin" ust to lift 
Out sunfish from daylight till 

Dew-fall— 'fore he'd leave " The Drift " 
And give us a chance — and then 
Kindo' fish back home again, 
Ketchin' 'em jes left and right 
Where we hadn't got " a bite !" 

Er, 'way windin' out and in, — 

Old path th'ough the iurnweeds 
And dog-fennel to yer chin — 

Then come suddent, th'ough the reeds 



48 UP AND DOWN OLD BRANDYIVINE 

And cat-tails, smack into where 
Them-air woods-hogs ust to scare 
Us clean 'crosst the County-line, 
Up and down old Brandywine ! 

But the dim roar o' the dam 

It 'ud coax us furder still 
Tords the old race, slow and ca'm, 
Slidin' on to Huston's mill- 
Where, I 'spect, " The Freeport crowd " 
Never warmed to us er 'lowed 
We wuz quite so overly 
Welcome as we aimed to be. 

Still it peared-like ever'thing — 

Fur away from home as there — 
Had more r*/«A-like, i jing !— 
Fish in stream, er bird in air! 

O them rich old bottom-lands, 

Past where Cowden's Schoolhouse stands! 

Wortermelons — master-mine ! 

Up and down old Brandywine ! 

And sich pop-paws !— Lumps o' raw 
Gold and green, — jes oozy th'ough 

With ripe yaller — like you've saw 
Custard-pie with no crust to: 



UP AND DOWN OLD BRANDYWINE 49 

And jes gorges o' wild plums, 
Till a feller'd suck his thumbs 
Clean up to his elbows ! My! — 
Me some more er lem me die ! 

Up and down old Brandywine ! 

Stripe me with pokeberry-juice ! — 
Flick me with a pizenvine 

And yell " Yip!" and lem me loose! 
— Old now as I then wuz young, 
'F I could sing as I have sung, 
Song 'ud surely ring dee-vine 
Up and down old Brandywine ! 



5o THREE SINGING FRIENDS 

THREE SINGING FRIENDS 

I 

LEE O. HARRIS 

SCHOOLA\ASTER and Songmaster ! Memory 
Enshrines thee with an equal love, for thy 
Duality of gifts, — thy pure and high 
Endowments — Learning rare, and Poesy 
These were as mutual handmaids, serving thee, 
Throughout all seasons of the years gone by, 
With all enduring joys 'twixt earth and sky- 
In turn shared nobly with thy friends and me. 
Thus is it that thy clear song, ringing on, 
Is endless inspiration, fresh and free 
As the old Mays at verge of June sunshine. 
And musical as then, at dewy dawn, 
The robin hailed us, and all twinklingly 
Our one path wandered under wood and vine. 

II 

BENJ. S. PARKER 

Thy rapt song makes of Earth a realm of light 
And shadow mystical as some dreamland 
Arched with unfathomed azure — vast and grand 

With splendor of the morn ; or dazzling bright 



THREE SINGING FRIENDS 51 

With orient noon ; or strewn with stars of night 

Thick as the daisies blown in grasses fanned 

By odorous midsummer breezes and 
Showered over by all bird-songs exquisite. 
This is thy voice's beatific art — 

To make melodious all things below, 
Calling through them, from far, diviner space, 
Thy clearer hail to us. — The faltering heart 

Thou cheerest; and thy fellow mortal so 
Fares onward under Heaven with lifted face. 

Ill 
JAMES NEWTON MATTHEWS 

Bard of our Western world! — its prairies wide, 
With edging woods, lost creeks and hidden ways; 
Its isolated farms, with roundelays 

Of orchard warblers heard on every side; 

Its crossroad schoolhouse, wherein still abide 
Thy fondest memories, — since there thy gaze 
First fell on classic verse; and thou, in praise 

Of that, didst find thine own song glorified. 

So singing, smite the strings and counterchange 
The lucently melodious drippings of 
Thy happy harp, from airs of " Tempe Vale," 

To chirp and trill of lowliest flight and range, 
In praise of our Today and home and love— 
Thou meadowlark no less than nightingale. 



52 A NOON LULL 



A NOON LULL 

'POSSUM in de 'tater-patch; 

Chicken-hawk a-hangin' 
Stiddy 'bove de stable-lot, 

An' cyarpet-loom a-bangin'! 
Hi! Mr. Hoppergrass, chawin' yo' terbacker, 
Flick ye wid er buggy-whirp yer spit er little blacker ! 

Niggah in de roas'in'-yeers, 

Whiskers in de shuckin'; 
Weasel croppin' mighty shy, 

But ole hen a-cluckin'! 
— What's got de matter er de mule-colt now? 
Drapt in de turnip-hole, chasin' f'um de cow! 



A IV1NDY DAY 53 



A WINDY DAY 

THE dawn was a dawn of splendor, 

And the blue of the morning skies 
Was as placid and deep and tender 

As the blue of a baby's eyes; 
The sunshine flooded the mountain, 

And flashed over land and sea 
Like the spray of a glittering fountain. — 

But the wind— the wind— Ah me ! 

Like a weird invisible spirit, 

It swooped in its airy flight; 
And the earth, as the stress drew near it, 

Quailed as in mute affright ; 
The grass in the green fields quivered — 

The waves of the smitten brook 
Chillily shuddered and shivered, 

And the reeds bowed down and shook. 

Like a sorrowful miserere 

It sobbed and it wailed and blew 
Till the leaves on the trees looked weary, 

And my prayers were weary, too ; 
And then, like the sunshine's glimmer 

That failed in the awful strain, 
All the hope of my eyes grew dimmer 

In a spatter of spiteful rain. 



54 MY HENRY 



MY HENRY 

HE'S jes' a great, big, awk'ard, hulkin' 
Feller, — humped, and sorto' sulkin'- 
Like, and ruther still-appearin' — 
Kind-as-ef he wuzn't keerin' 

Whether school halt out er not — 
That's my Henry, to a dot! 

Alius kindo' liked him — whether 
Childern, er gro\ved-up together! 
Fifteen year' ago and better, 
Tore he ever knowed a letter, 
Run acrosst the little fooi 
In my Primer-class at school. 

When the Teacher wuzn't looking 
He'd be thWin' wads ; er crookin' 
Pins; er sprinklin' pepper, more'n 
Likely, on the stove ; er borin' 

Gimblet-holes up thue his desk— 
Nothin' that boy wouldn't resk! 

But, somehow, as I was goin' 
On to say, he seemed so knowin', 
Other ways, and cute and cunnin' — 
Alius wuz a notion runnin' 

Thue my giddy, fool-head he 
Jes' had ben cut out fer me! 



MY HENRY 55 



Don't go much on prophesyir? , 

But last night whilse I wuz fryin' 
Supper, with that man a-pitchin' 
Little Marthy 'round the kitchen, 

Think-says-I, " Them baby's eyes 
Is my Henry's, jes' p'cise!" 



56 THE SONG I NEVER SING 



THE SONG I NEVER SING 

AS when in dreams we sometimes hear 

A melody so faint and fine 
And musically sweet and clear, 
It flavors all the atmosphere 
With harmony divine, — 
So, often in my waking dreams, 
I hear a melody that seems 
Like fairy voices whispering 
To me the song I never sing. 

Sometimes when brooding o'er the years 

My lavish youth has thrown away— 
When all the glowing past appears 
But as a mirage that my tears 
Have crumbled to decay, — 
I thrill to find the ache and pain 
Of my remorse is stilled again, 
As, forward bent and listening, 
I hear the song I never sing. 

A murmuring of rythmic words, 

Adrift on tunes whose currents flow 
Melodious with the trill of birds, 
And far-off lowing of the herds 
In lands of long-ago ; 



THE SONG I NEVER SING 57 

And every sound the truant loves 
Comes to me like the coo of doves 
When first in blooming fields of Spring 
I heard the song I never sing. 

The echoes of old voices, wound 

In limpid streams of laughter where 
The river Time runs bubble-crowned, 
And giddy eddies ripple round 
The lilies growing there; 
Where roses, bending o'er the brink, 
Drain their own kisses as they drink, 
And ivies climb and twine and cling 
About the song I never sing. 

An ocean-surge of sound that falls 

As though a tide of Heavenly art 
Had tempested the gleaming halls 
And crested o'er the golden walls 

In showers on my heart 

Thus— thus, with open arms and eyes 
Uplifted toward the alien skies, 
Forgetting every earthly thing, 
I hear the song I never sing. 



58 THE SONG I NEVER SING 

O nameless lay, sing clear and strong, 

Pour down thy melody divine 
Till purifying floods of song 
Have washed away the stains of wrong 
That dim this soul of mine! 
O woo me near and nearer thee, 
Till my glad lips may catch the key, 
And, with a voice unwavering, 
Join in the song I never sing. 



TO EDGAR WILSON NYE 59 



TO EDGAR WILSON NYE 

O " WILLIAM,"— in thy blithe companionship 
What liberty is mine — what sweet release 
From clamorous strife, and yet what boisterous peace ! 

Ho ! ho ! it is thy fancy's finger-tip 

That dints the dimple now, and kinks the lip 
That scarce may sing, in ail this glad increase 
Of merriment ! So, pray-thee, do not cease 

To cheer me thus ; — for, underneath the quip 

Of thy droll sorcery, the wrangling fret 
Of all distress is stilled — no syllable 

Of sorrow vexeth me — no teardrops wet 
My teeming lids save those that leap to tell 

Thee thou 'st a guest that overweepeth, yet 
Only because thou jokest overwell. 



6o LITTLE DAVID 



LITTLE DAVID 

THE mother of the little boy that sleeps 
Has blest assurance, even as she weeps: 
She knows her little boy has now no pain- 
No further ache, in body, heart or brain ; 
All sorrow is lulled for him — all distress 
Passed into utter peace and restfulness. — 
All health that heretofore has been denied— 
All happiness, all hope, and all beside 
Of childish longing, now he clasps and keeps 
In voiceless joy— the little boy that sleeps. 



OUT OF THE HITHERWHERE 61 



OUT OF THE HITHERWHERE 

OUT of the hitherwhere into the YON— 
The land that the Lord's love rests upon ; 
Where one may rely on the friends he meets, 
And the smiles that greet him along the streets: 
Where the mother that left you years ago 
Will lift the hands that were folded so, 
And put them about you, with all the love 
And tenderness you are dreaming of. 

Out of the hitherwhere into the YON— 

Where all of the friends of your youth have gone, 

Where the old schoolmate that laughed with you, 

Will laugh again as he used to do, 

Running to meet you, with such a face 

As lights like a moon the wondrous place 

Where God is living, and glad to live, 

Since He is the Master and may forgive. 

Out of the hitherwhere into the YON ! — 

Stay the hopes we are leaning on — 

You, Divine, with Your merciful eyes 

Looking down from the far-away skies, — 

Smile upon us, and reach and take 

Our worn souls Home for the old home's sake. — 

And so Amen, — for our all seems gone 

Out of the hitherwhere into the YON. 



62 RABBIT IN THE CROSS-TIES 



RABBIT IN THE CROSS-TIES 

RABBIT in the cross-ties.— 
Punch him out— quick ! 

Git a twister on him 
With a long prong stick. 

Watch him on the south side- 
Watch him on the— Hi !— 

There he goes! Sic him, Tige! 
Yi! ' Yi!! Yi ! ! ! 



SERENADE— TO NORA 63 



SERENADE-TO NORA 

THE moonlight is failin' — 

The sad stars are palin' — 
The black wings av night are a-droopin' an' trailin'; 

The wind's miserere 

Sounds lonesome an' dreary ; 
The katydid's dumb an' the nightingale's weary. 

Troth, Nora! I'm wadin' 

The grass an' paradin' 
The dews at your dure, wid my swate serenading 

Alone and forsaken, 

Whilst you're never wakin' 
To tell me you're wid me an' I am mistaken ! 

Don't think that my singin' 

Its wrong to be flingin' 
Forninst av the dreams that the Angels are bringin'; 

For if your pure spirit 

Might waken and hear it, 
You'd never be draamin' the Saints could come near it ! 

Then lave off your slaapin' — 

The pulse av me's laapin' 
To have the two eyes av yez down on me paapin'. 

Och, Nora! Its hopin' 

Your windy ye'll open 
And light up the night were the heart av me's gropin'. 



64 HE AND I 



HE AND I 

JUST drifting on together- 
He and I — 
As through the balmy weather 
Of July 
Drift two thistle-tufts imbedded 
Each in each — by zephyrs wedded — 
Touring upward, giddy-headed, 
For the sky. 

And, veering up and onward, 

Do we seem 
Forever drifting dawn ward 
In a dream, 
Where we meet song-birds that know us, 
And the winds their kisses blow us, 
While the years flow far below us 
Like a stream. 

And we are happy — very — 

He and I — 
Aye, even glad and merry 
Though on high 
The heavens are sometimes shrouded 
By the midnight storm, and clouded 
Till the pallid moon is crowded 
From the skv. 



HE AND I 65 



My spirit ne'er expresses 

Any choice 
But to clothe him with caresses 
And rejoice ; 
And as he laughs, it is in 
Such a tone the moonbeams glisten 
And the stars come out to listen 
To his voice. 

And so, whate'er the weather, 
He and I, — 

With our lives linked thus together, 

Float and fly 
As two thistle-tufts imbedded 
Each in each— by zephyrs wedded- 
Touring upward, giddy-headed, 

For the sky. 



(5) 



66 WHAT REDRESS 



WHAT REDRESS 

I PRAY you, do not use this thing 

For vengeance ; but if questioning 

What wound, when dealt your humankind, 

Goes deepest, — surely he will find 

Who wrongs you, loving him no less — 

There's nothing hurts like tenderness. 



DREAMER, SAY 67 



DREAMER, SAY 

DREAMER, say, will you dream for me 

A wild sweet dream of a foreign land, 
Whose border sips of a foaming sea 

With lips of coral and silver sand; 
Where warm winds loll on the shady deeps, 

Or lave themselves in the tearful mist 
The great wild wave of the breaker weeps 

O'er crags of opal and amethyst? 

Dreamer, say, will you dream a dream 

Of tropic shades in the lands of shine, 
Where the lily leans o'er an amber stream 

That flows like a rill of wasted wine, — 
Where the palm-trees, lifting their shields of green, 

Parry the shafts of the Indian sun 
Whose splintering vengeance falls between 

The reeds below where the waters run? 

Dreamer, say, will you dream of love 

That lives in a land of sweet perfume, 
Where the stars drip down from the skies above 

In molten spatters of bud and bloom? 
Where never the weary eyes are wet, 

And never a sob in the balmy air, 
And only the laugh of the paroquette 

Breaks the sleep of the silence there? 



68 WHEN LIDE MARRIED HIM 



WHEN LIDE MARRIED HIM 

WHEN Lide married him— w'y, she had to jes dee-fy 

The whole popilation ! — But she never bat' an eye ! 

Her parents, begged, and threatened—she must give him 

up — that he 
Wuz jes " a common drunkard ! " — And he wu%, ap- 

pearantly. — 

Swore they'd chase him off the place 
Ef he ever showed his face — 
Long after she'd eloped with him and married him fer 

shore !— 
When Lide married him, it wuz " Katy, bar the door!" 

When Lide married him — Well! she had to go and be 
A hired girl in town somewheres — while he tromped 

round to see 
What he could git that he could do, — you might say, 

jes sawed wood 
From door-to-door ! — that's what he done— 'cause that 

wuz best he could! 

And the strangest thing, i jing ! 
Wuz, he didn't drink a thing,— 
But jes got down to bizness, like he someway wanted to, 
When Lide married him, like they warned her not to do ! 



WHEN LIDE MARRIED HIM 69 

When Lide married him — er, ruther, had ben married 
A little up'ards of a year — some feller come and carried 
That hired girl away with him — a ruther stylish feller 
In a bran-new green spring-wagon, with the wheels 
striped red and yeller: 

And he whispered, as they driv 
Tords the country, "Now we'll live!" — 
And somepiti* else she laughed to hear, though both her 

eyes wuz dim, 
'Bout " trustin* Love and Heaven above, sence Lide mar- 
ried him!" 



7o MY BRIDE THAT IS TO BE 



MY BRIDE THAT IS TO BE 

O SOUL of mine, look out and see 
My bride, my bride that is to be! — 

Reach out with mad, impatient hands, 
And draw aside futurity 
As one might draw a veil aside — 

And so unveil her where she stands 
Madonna-like and glorified— 

The queen of undiscovered lands 
Of love, to where she beckons me — 
My bride— my bride that is to be. 
The shadow of a willow-tree 

That wavers on a garden- wall 

In summertime may never fall 
In attitude as gracefully 
As my fair bride that is to be;— 

Nor ever Autumn's leaves of brown 
As lightly flutter to the lawn 
As fall her fairy-feet upon 

The path of love she loiters down. — 
O'er drops of dew she walks, and yet 
Not one may stain her sandal wet — 
Aye, she might dance upon the way 
Nor crush a single drop to spray, 
So airy-like she seems to me, — 
My bride, my bride that is to be. 



MY BRIDE THAT IS TO BE 71 

I know not if her eyes are light 

As summer-skies or dark as night, — 

I only know that they are dim 

With mystery : In vain I peer 

To make their hidden meaning clear, 

While o'er their surface, like a tear 
That ripples to the silken brim, 
A look of longing seems to swim 

All worn and wean-like to me ; 
And then, as suddenly, my sight 
Is blinded with a smile so bright, 

Through folded lids I still may see 

My bride, my bride that is to be. 
Her face is like a night of June 
Upon whose brow the crescent-moon 
Hangs pendant in a diadem 
Of stars, with envy lighting them. — 

And, like a wild cascade, her hair 
Floods neck and shoulder, arm and wrist, 
Till only through a gleaming mist 

I seem to see a siren there, 
With lips of love and melody 

And open arms and heaving breast 

Wherein I fling myself to rest, 
The while my heart cries hopelessly 
For my fair bride that is to be. . . . 



72 MY BRIDE THAT IS TO BE 

Nay, foolish heart and blinded eyes! 
My bride hath need of no disguise. — 

But, rather, let her come to me 
In such a form as bent above 

My pillow when, in infancy, 
I knew not anything but love. — 
O let her come from out the lands 

Of Womanhood— not fairy isles, — 
And let her come with Woman's hands 

And Woman's eyes of tears and smiles,- 
With Woman's hopefulness and grace 
Of patience lighting up her face : 
And let her diadem be wrought 
Of kindly deed and prayerful thought, 
That ever over all distress 
May beam the light of cheerfulness. — 
And let her feet be brave to fare 
The labyrinths of doubt and care, 
That, following, my own may find 
The path to Heaven God designed. — 
O let her come like this to me — 
My bride — my bride that is to be. 



1 RINGWORM FRANK ' ' 73 



" RINGWORM FRANK" 

JEST Frank Reed 's his real name — though 

Boys all calls him " Ringworm Frank," 
'Cause he alius runs round so. — 
No man can't tell where to bank 
Frank '11 be, 
Next you see 
Er hear of him ! — Drat his melts !— 
That man's alius somers else! 

We're old pards. — But Frank he jest 

Can't stay still ! — Wuz prosper* t? here, 
But lit out on furder West 
Somers on a ranch, last year: 
Never heard 
Nary a word 
How he liked it, tel to-day, 
Got this card, reads thisaway: — 

" Dad-burn climate out here makes 
Me homesick all Winter long, 
And when Springtime comes, it takes 
Two pee-wees to sing one song, — 
One sings 'pee,' 
And the other one 'wee!' 
Stay right where you air, old pard.— 
Wisht / wuz this postal-card ! " 



74 AN EMPTY GLOVE 



AN EMPTY GLOVE 

I 

AN empty glove — long withering in the grasp 
Of Time's cold palm. I lift it to my lips — 
And lo, once more I thrill beneath its clasp, 
In fancy, as with odorous finger-tips 
It reaches from the years that used to be 
And proffers back love, life and all, to me. 

II 

Ah! beautiful she was beyond belief: 

Her face was fair and lustrous as the moon's ; 
Her eyes — too large for small delight or grief, — 
The smiles of them were Laughter's afternoons ; 
Their tears were April showers, and their love — 
All sweetest speech sw T oons ere it speaks thereof. 

Ill 

White-fruited cocoa shown against the shell 

Were not so white as was her brow below 
The cloven tresses of the hair that fell 
Across her neck and shoulders of nude snow; 
Her cheeks — chaste pallor, with a crimson stain — 
Her mouth w r as like a red rose rinsed with rain. 



AN EMPTY GLOVE 75 

IV 

And this was she my fancy held as good— 

As fair and lovable — in every wise 
As peerless in pure worth of womanhood 
As was her wondrous beauty in men's eyes. — 
Yet, all alone, I kiss this empty glove— 
The poor husk of the hand I loved— and love. 



76 OUR OH/N 



OUR OWN 

THEY walk here with us, hand-in-hand ; 

We gossip, knee-by-knee ; 
They tell us all that they have planned- 

Of all their joys to be, — 
And, laughing, leave us : And, to-day, 

All desolate we cry 
Across wide waves of voiceless graves — 

Good-bye! Good-bye! Good-bye! 



MAKE-BELIEVE 

AND CHILD-PLAY 



(77) 



THE FROG 

WHO am I but the Frog — the Frog! 

My realm is the dark bayou, 
And my throne is the muddy and moss- grown log 

That the poison-vine clings to — 
And the blacksnahes slide in the slimy tide 

Where the ghost of the moon looks blue. 

What am I but a King — a King! — 

For the royal robes I wear — 
Mr*, too, and a signet-ring, 

As vassals and serfs declare : 
And a voice, god wot, that is equaled not 

In the wide world anywhere! 

I can talk to the Night — the Night! — 

Under her big black wing 
She tells me the tale of the world outright, 

And the secret of everything ; 
For she knows you all, from the time you crawl, 

To the doom that death will bring. 

The Storm swoops down, and he blows — and blows,- 

While I drum on his swollen cheek, 
And croak in his angered eye that glows 
(79) 



So THE FROG 



With the lurid lightning's streak; 
While the rushes drown in the watery frown 
That his bursting passions leak. 

And I can see through the shy — the sky — 

As clear as a piece of glass ; 
And I can tell you the how and why 

Of the things that come to pass — 
And whether the dead are there instead, 

Or under the graveyard grass. 

To your Sovereign lord all hail — all hail! — 
To your Prince on his throne so grim I 

Let the moon swing low, and the high stars trail 
Their heads in the dust to him; 

And the wide world sing: Long live the King, 
And grace to his royal whim! 



" TWIGGS AND TUDENS" 

IF my old schooi-chum and room-mate John Skinner is 
alive to-day — and no doubt he is alive, and quite so, be- 
ing, when last heard from, the very alert and effective 
Train Dispatcher at Butler, Ind., — he will not have for- 
gotten a certain night in early June (the 8th) of 1870, in 
" Old Number 'Leven " of the Dunbar House, Green- 
field, when he and I sat the long night through, getting 
ready a famous issue of our old school-paper, " The Cri- 
terion" And he will remember, too, the queer old man 
who occupied, but that one night, the room just opposite 
our own, number 13. For reasons wholly aside from 
any superstitious dread connected with the numerals, 13 
was not a desirable room ; its locality was alien to all 
accommodations, and its comforts, like its furnishings, 
were extremely meager. In fact, it was the room usu- 
ally assigned to the tramp-printer, who, in those days, 
was an institution ; or again, it was the local habitation 
of the oft-recurring transient customer who was too in- 
capacitated to select a room himself when he retired— 
or rather, when he was personally retired by " the 
hostler/' as the gentlemanly night-clerk of that era was 
habitually designated. 

As both Skinner and myself — between fitful terms of 
school — had respectively served as " printer's devil " in 
6 (81) 



82 "TWIGGS AND TUDENS" 

the two rival newspaper offices of the town, it was 
natural for us to find a ready interest in anything per- 
taining to the newspaper business ; and so it was, per- 
haps, that we had been selected, by our own approval 
and that of our fellow-students of The Graded Schools, 
to fill the rather exalted office of editing " The Criterion." 
Certain it is, that the rather abrupt rise from the lowly 
duties of the "roller" to the editorial management of 
a paper of our own (even if issued in hand-writing) 
we accepted as a natural right ; and, vested in our new 
power of office, we were largely "shaping the whisper 
of the throne" about our way. 

And upon this particular evening it was, as John and 
I had fairly squared ourselves for the work of the night, 
that we heard the clatter and shuffle of feet on the 
side-stairs, and, an instant later, the hostler establish- 
ing some poor unfortunate in 13, just across the hall. 

" Listen ! " said John, as we heard an old man's voice 
through the open transom of our door,—" Listen at 
that!". 

It was an utterance peculiarly refined, in language as 
well as intonation. A low, mild, rather apologetic voice, 
gently assuring the hostler that "everything was very 
snug and comfortable indeed," so far as the "compart- 
ment" was concerned— but would not the "attendant" 
kindly supply a better light, together with pen-and-ink— 
and just a sheet or two of paper,— if he would be so 



"TWIGGS AND TUDENS" 83 

very good as to find a pardon for so very troublesome 
a guest." 

11 Haint no writin'-paper," said the hostler, briefly,— 
" and the big lamps is all in use. These fellers here in 
'Leven might let you have some paper and — Haint you 
got a lead-pencil ?" 

" Oh, no matter! " came the impatient yet kindly an- 
swer of the old voice — " no matter at all, my good fel- 
low !— Good-night— good-night ! " 

We waited till the sullen, clumpy footsteps down the 
hall and stair had died away. 

Then Skinner, with a handful of foolscap, opened our 
door ; and, with an indorsing smile from me, crossed the 
hall and tapped at 13 — was admitted — entered, and very 
quietly closed the door behind him, evidently that I 
might not be disturbed. 

I wrote on in silence for quite a time. It was, in 
fact, a full half-hour before John had returned,— and 
with a face and eye absolutely blazing with delight. 

"An old printer," whispered John, answering my 
look, — "and we're in luck: — He's a genius, 'yGod! 
and an Englishman, and knows Dickens personally— 
used to write races with him, and's got a manuscript 
of his in his "portmanteau," as he calls an old oil- 
cloth knapsack with one lung clean gone. Excuse this 
extra light.— Old man's lamp's like a sore eye, and he's 
going to touch up the Dickens' sketch for us! Hear?— 



84 "TWIGGS AND TUDENS" 

For us — for 'The Criterion.' Says he can't sleep— he's 
in distress — has a presentiment— some dear friend is 
dying — or dead now— and he must write— write!" 

This is, in briefest outline, the curious history of the 
subjoined sketch, especially curious for the reason that 
the following morning's cablegram announced that the 
great novelist, Charles Dickens, had been stricken sud- 
denly and seriously the night previous. On the day of 
this announcement — even as " The Criterion" was being 
read to perfunctorily-interested visitors of The Greenfield 
Graded Schools — came the further announcement of Mr. 
Dickens' death. The old printer's manuscript, here repro- 
duced, is, as originally, captioned — 

TWIGGS AND TUDENS 

" Now who'd want a more cozier little home than me 
and Tude's got here?" asked Mr. Twiggs, as his twink- 
ling eyes swept caressingly around the cheery little 
room in which he, alone, stood one chill December even- 
ing as the great St. Paul's was drawling six. 

"This aint no princely hall with all its gorgeous 
paraphanaly, as the play-bills says ; but it's what I calls 
a c interior,' which for meller comfort and cheerful sur- 
roundin's, aint to be ekalled by no other 'flat' on the 
boundless, never-endin' stage of this existence ! " And 
as the exuberant Mr. Twiggs rendered this observation, 
he felt called upon to smile and bow most graciously to 



"TIVIGGS AND TUDENS" 85 

an invisible audience, whose wild approval he in turn 
interpreted by an enthusiastic clapping of his hands and 
the cry of " ongcore ! " in a dozen different keys — this 
strange acclamation being made the more grotesque by 
a great green parrot perched upon the mantel, which in 
a voice less musical than penetrating, chimed in with 
"Hooray for Twiggs and Tudens ! " a very great num- 
ber of times. 

"Tude's a queer girl," said Mr. Twiggs, subsiding 
into a reflective calm, broken only by the puffing of his 
pipe, and the occasional articulation of a thought, as it 
loitered through his mind. " Tude's a queer girl !— a 
werry queer girl!" repeated Mr. Twiggs, pausing again, 
with a long whiff at his pipe, and marking the graceful 
swoop the smoke made as it dipped and disappeared up 
the wide, black-throated chimney ; and then, as though 
dropping into confidence with the great fat kettle on the 
coals, that steamed and bubbled with some inner parox- 
ysm, he added, "And queer and nothink short, is the 
lines for Tude, eh? 

"Now s'posin'," he continued, leaning forward and 
speaking in a tone whose careful intonation might have 
suggested a more than ordinary depth of wisdom and 
sagacity,—" S'posin' a pore chap like me, as aint no 
property only this 'ere ' little crooked house ', as Tude calls 
it, and some 0' the properties I 'andles at the Drury— 
as I was a-sayin',— s'posin' now a old rough chap like 



86 "TWIGGS AND TUDENS" 

me was jest to tell her all about herself, and who she 
is and all, and not no kith or kin o' mine, let alone a 
daughter, as she thinks — What do you reckon now 'ud 
be the upshot, eh?" And as Mr. Twiggs propounded 
this mysterious query he jabbed the poker prankishly 
in the short-ribs of the grate, at which the pot, as 
though humoring a joke it failed to wholly comprehend, 
set up a chuckling of such asthmatic violence its 
smothered each i nations tilted its copper lid till Mr. 
Twiggs was obliged to dash a cup of water in its face. 
"And Tude's a-comin of a age, too," continued Mr. 
Twiggs, "when a more tenderer pertecter than a father, 
so to speak, wouldn't be out o' keepin' with the nat'ral 
order o' things, seem' as how she's sort o' startin' 
for herself-like now. And its a question in my mind, 
if it ain't my bounden duty as her father— or ruther, who 
has been a father to her all her life— to kind o' tell her 
jest how things is, and all — and how / am, and every- 
thing— and how I feel as though I ort o' stand by her, 
as I alius have, and alius have had her welfare in view, 
and kind o' feel as how I alius— ort o' kind o'— ort o' 
kind o' "—and here Mr. Twiggs' voice fell into silence so 
abruptly that the drowsy parrot started from its trance- 
like quiet and cried " Ortokindo ! ortokindo ! " with 
such a strength of seeming mockery that he was brushed 
violently to the floor by the angry hand of Mr. Twiggs 
and went backing awkwardly beneath the table. 



"TIVIGGS AND TUDENS" 87 

" Blow me," said Mr. Twiggs, "if the knowin' inci- 
dence of that 'ere bird aint astonishin' ! " And then, af- 
ter a serious controversy with the draft of his pipe, he 
went on with his deliberations. 

"Lor! it were jest scrumptious to see Tude in * The 
Iron Chest' last night! Now, I aint no actur myself,— 
I've been on, of course, a thousand times as 'fillin',' 
1 sogers ' and * peasants ' and the like, where I never had 
no lines, on'y in the * choruses ; ' but if I don't know 
-nothin' but 'All hail!— Ail hail!' I've had the experi- 
ence of bein' under the baleful hinfluence of the hop- 
pery-glass, and I'm free to say it air a ticklish position 
and no mistake. But Tude! w'y, bless you, she warn't 
the first bit flustered, was she? 'Peared like she jest 
felt perfectly at home-like — like her mother afore her! 
And I'm dashed if I didn't feel the cold chills a-creepin' 
and a-crawlin' when she was a-singin' 'Down by the 
river there grows a green wilier and a-weepin' all night 
with the bank for her pillar ; ' and when she come to 
the part about wantin' to be buried there 'while the 
winds was a-blowin' close by the stream where her tears 
was a-flowin', and over her corpse to keep the green 
willers growin ', I'm d— d if I didn't blubber right out!" 
And as the highly sympathetic Mr. Twiggs delivered 
this acknowledgment, he stroked the inner corners of his 
eyes, and rubbed his thumb and finger on his trowsers. 

" It were a tryin' thing, though," he went on, his 



88 "TWIGGS AND TUDENS" 

mellow features settling into a look not at all in keep- 
ing with his shiny complexion, "it were a tryin' thing, 
and it air a tryin' thing to see them lovely arms o' hern 
a-twinin' so lovin'-like around that 'ere Stanley's neck 
and a-kissin' of him — as she's obleeged to do, of course- 
as the 'properties' of the play demands ; but I'm blowed 
if she wouldn't do it quite so nat'ral-like I'd feel easier. 
Blow me! " he broke off savagely, starting up and fling- 
ing his pipe in the ashes, "I'm about a-comin' to the 
conclusion I aint got no more courage'n a blasted school- 
boy ! Here I am old enough to be her father — mighty 
nigh it — and yet I'm actually afear'd to speak up and 
tell her jest how things is, and all, and how I feel like 
I— like I— ort o'— ort o' "— 

"Ortokindo! Ortokindo!" shrieked the parrot, clinging 
in a reversed position to the under-round of a chair. — 
"Ortokindo! Ortokindo! Tude's come home ! — Tude's 
come home ! " And as though in happy proof of this 
latter assertion, the gentle Mr. Twiggs found his chubby 
neck encircled by a pair of rosy arms, and felt upon his 
cheek the sudden pressure of a pair of lips that thrilled 
his old heart to the core. And then the noisy bird 
dropped from his perch and marched pompously from 
its place of concealment, trailing its rusty wings and 
shrieking, "Tude's come home!" at the top of its 
brazen voice. 

" Shet up ! " screamed Mr. Twiggs, with a pretended 



'TWIGGS AND TUDENS" 



gust of rage, kicking lamely at the feathered oracle; 
"Til ' Tude's-come-home ' ye! W'y, a feller can't hear 
his ears for your infernal squawkin' ! " And then, turn- 
ing toward the serious eyes that peered rebukingly into 
his own, his voice fell gentle as a woman's: "Well, 
there, Tudens, I beg parding ; I do indeed. Don't look 
at me thataway. I know I'm a great, rough, good-for — " 
But a warm, swift kiss cut short the utterance ; and, as 
the girl drew back, still holding the bright old face be- 
tween her tender palms, he said simply, " You're a queer 
girl, Tudens; a queer girl." 

"Ha! am I?" said the girl, in quite evident heroics 
and quotation, starting back with a theatrical flourish and 
falling into a fantastic attitude. — " ' Troth, I am sorry for 
it ; me poor father's heart is bursting with gratichude, 
and he would fain ease it by pouring out his thanks to 
his benefactor.' " 

"Werry good! Werry good, indeed!" said Mr. 
Twiggs, gazing wistfully upon the graceful figure of 
the girl. "You're a-growin' more wonderful' clever 
in your 'presence' every day, Tude. You don't think 
o' nothink else but your actin,' do ye now?" And, as 
Mr. Twiggs concluded this observation, a something 
very like a sigh came faltering from his lips. 

"Why, listen there! Ah-ha! " laughed Tude, clapping 
her hands and dancing gaily around his chair.— "Why, 
you old melancholy Dane, you ! are you actually sigh- 
ing?" Then, dropping into a tragic air of deep con- 



go "TWIGGS AND TUDENS" 

trition, she continued : " * But, believe me, I would not 
question you, but to console you, Wilford. I would 
scorn to pry into any one's grief, much more yours, 
Wilford, to satisfy a busy curiosity.'" 

"Oh, don't Tude; don't rehearse like that at me!— I 
can't a-bear it." And the serious Mr. Twiggs held out 
his hand as though warding off a blow. At this ap- 
peal the girl's demeanor changed to one of tenderest 
solicitude. 

" Why, Pop'm," she said, laying her hand on his 
shoulder, "I did not mean to vex you — forgive me. I 
was only trying to be happy, as I ought, although my 
own heart is this very minute heavy — very heavy — 
very.— No, no; I don't mean that — but, Father, Father, 
I have not been dutiful." 

" W'y, yes you have," broke in Mr. Twiggs, smother- 
ing the heavy exclamation in his handkerchief. "You 
ain't been ondutiful, nor nothink else. You're jest all 
and everythink that heart could wish. It's all my own 
fault, Tudens; it's all my fault. You see, I git to 
thinkin' sometimes like I was a-goin' to lose you; and 
now that you are a-comin' on in years, and gittin' such 
a fine start, and all, and position and everythink. — Yes* 
sir! position, 'cause everybody likes you, Tudens. You 
know that; and I'm that proud of you and all, and that 
selfish, that it's onpossible I could ever, ever give you 
up ; — never, never, ever give you up ! " And Mr. Twiggs 



''TWIGGS AND TUDENS" 91 

again stifled his voice in his handkerchief and blew his 
nose with prolonged violence. 

It may have been the melancholy ticking of the clock, 
as it grated on the silence following, it may have been 
the gathering darkness of the room, or the plaintive 
sighing of the rising wind without, that caused the girl 
to shudder as she stooped to kiss the kind old face 
bent forward in the shadows, and turned with feigned 
gayety to the simple task of arranging supper. But 
when, a few minutes later, she announced that Twiggs 
and Tudens' tea was waiting, the two smilingly sat 
down, Mr. Twiggs remarking, that if he only knew a 
blessing, he'd ask it upon that occasion most certainly. 

" — For only look at these-'ere 'am and eggs," he said, 
admiringly: " I'd like to know if the Queen herself 
could cook 'em to a nicer turn, or serve 'em up more 
tantalizin'er to the palate. And this-'ere soup,— or what- 
ever it is, is rich as gravy ; and these boughten rolls ain't 
a bad thing either, split in two and toasted as you do 'em, 
air they, Tude?" And as Mr. Twiggs glanced inquir- 
ingly at his companion, he found her staring vacantly at 
her plate. " I was jest a-sayin', Tudens — " he went on, 
pretending to blow his tea and glancing cautiously across 
his saucer. 

" Yes, Pop'm, I heard you ;— we really ought to have 
a blessing, by all means." 

Mr. Twiggs put down his tea without tasting it. 



9 2 "TIVIGGS AND TUDENS" 

"Tudens," he said, after a long pause, in which he 
carefully buttered a piece of toast for the second time,— 
" Tudens, I'm 'most afeared you didn't grasp that last 
remark of mine: I was a-sayin' — " 

" Well — "said Tudens, attentively. 

" I was a-sayin'," said Mr. Twiggs, averting his face 
and staring stoically at his toast ; " I was a-sayin' that 
you was a-gittin' now to be quite a young woman." 

"Oh, so you were," said Tudens, with charming 
naivete. 

"Well," said Mr. Twiggs, repentantly, but with a 
humorous twinkle, " if I wasn't a-sayin' of it, I was 
a-thmkm 7 it." — And then, running along hurriedly, "and 
I've been a-thinkin' it for days and days — ever sence 
you left the ' bailey' and went in * chambermaids,' 
and last in leadin' roles. Maybe you ain't noticed it, 
but I've had my eyes on you from the 'flies' and the 
1 wings ; ' and jest betwixt us, Tudens, and not for me 
as ort to know better, and does know better, to go a- 
flatterin', at my time o' — or to go a-flatterin' anybody, as 
I said, after you're a-gittin' to be a young woman — and 
what's more, a werry 'andsome young woman ! " 

" IVhy, Pop'm! " exclaimed Tudens, blushing. 

" Yes you are, Tudens, and I mean it, every w r ord of 
it ; and as I was a-goin' on to say, I've been a-watchin' of 
you, and a-layin' off a long time jest to tell you summat 
that will make your eyes open wider 'an that! What 



-l TWIGGS AND TUDENS " 93 

I mean," said Mr. Twiggs, coughing vehemently and 
pushing his chair back from the table, "what I mean 
is, you'll soon be old enough to be a-settin' up for your- 
self-like, and marry'— W'y, Tudens, what ails you ? " The 
girl had risen to her feet, and, with a face dead white and 
lips all tremulous, stood clinging to her chair for sup- 
port. " What ails you, Tudens ? " repeated Mr. Twiggs, 
lifting to his feet and gazing on her with a curious 
expression of alarm and tenderness. 

" Nothing serious, dear Pop'm," said Tudens, with a 
flighty little laugh, — " only it just flashed on me all at 
once that I'd clear forgotten poor 'Dick's' supper." And 
as she turned abruptly to the parrot, cooing and clucking 
to him playfully, — up, up from some hitherto undreamed- 
of depth within the yearning heart of Mr. Twiggs 
mutely welled the old utterance, "Tude's a queer girl!" 

"Whatever made you think of such a thing, Father? " 
called Tudens, gaily ; and then, without waiting for an 
answer, went on cooing to the parrot, — " Hey, old 
Dickey-bird ! do you think Tudens is a handsome young 
woman? and do you think Tudens is old enough to 
marry, eh?" This query delivered, she broke into a fit 
of merriment which so wrought upon the susceptibili- 
ties of the bird that he was heard to repeatedly declare 
and affirm, in most positive and unequivocal terms, that 
Tude had actually come home. 

"Yes— sir, Tudens!" broke in Mr. Twiggs at last, 



94 ' ' TWIGGS AND TUDENS ' ' 

lighting a fresh churchwarden and settling into his old 
position at the grate ; " have your laugh out over it 
now, but it's a werry serious fact, for all that." 

" I know it, Father," said the girl, recovering her 
gravity, turning her large eyes lovingly upon him and 
speaking very tenderly. " I know it— oh, I know it; 
and many, many times when I have thought of it, and 
then again of your old kindly faith ; all the warm wealth 
of your love; and our old home here, and all the happi- 
ness it ever held for me and you alike — oh, I have tried 
hard — indeed, indeed I have — to put all other thought 
away and live for you alone ! But Pop'm ! dear old 
Pop'm — " And even as the great strong breast made 
shelter for her own, the woman's heart within her 
flowed away in mists of gracious tears. 

" Couldn't live without old Pop'm, could her?" half 
cried and laughed the happy Mr. Twiggs, tangling his 
clumsy fingers in the long dark hair that fell across his 
arm, and bending till his glad face touched her own. — 
" — Couldn't live without old Pop'm?" 

" Never! never!" sobbed the girl, lifting her brim- 
ming eyes and gazing in the kind old face. " Oh, may 
I always live with you, Pop'm? Always? — Forever?" — 

" — And a day!" said Mr. Twiggs, emphatically. 

"Even after I'm—" and she hid her face again. 

"Even after — what, Tudens?" 



'TWIGGS AMD TUDENS" 95 



" After I'm — after I'm— married ? " murmured Tudens, 
with a longing pressure. 

" Nothink short !" said Mr. Twiggs; — "perwidin'," 
he added, releasing one hand and smoothing back his 
scanty hair — "perwidin', of course, that your man is a 
honest, straitforrerd feller, as aint no lordly notions nor 
nothink 0' that sort.'' 

"Nor rich?" 

"Well, I aint so p'ticklar about his bein' pore, ad- 
zackly. — Say a feller as works for his Iivin', and knows 
how to 'usband his earnin's thrifty-like, and alius 'as 
a hextry crown or two laid up against a rainy day — 
and a good perwider, of course," said Mr. Twiggs, with 
a comfortable glance around the room. — " '11 blow me if 
I didn't see a face there a-peerin' in the winder!" 

"Oh, no you didn't," said the girl, without raising 
her head. "Go on — ' and a good provider — '" 

"—A good perwider," continued Mr. Twiggs; "and a 
feller, of course, as has a eye out for the substantials of 
this life, and aint afeard 0' work — that's the idear ! that's 
the idear!" said Mr. Twiggs by way of sweeping con- 
clusion. 

"And that's all old Pop'm asks, after all?" queried 
the girl, with her radiant face yearning in his own. 

" W'y, certainly ! " said Mr. Twiggs, with heartiness. 
"Aint that all and everythink to make home happy?—" 



96 "TWIGGS AND TUDENS" 

catching her face between his great brown hands and 
kissing her triumphantly. 

" Hooray for Twiggs-and Twiggs-and Twiggs-and — " 
cootered the drowsy bird, disjointedly. 

The girl had risen. — "And you'll forgive me for mar- 
rying such a man?" 

"Won't I?" said Mr. Twiggs, with a rapturous 
twinkle. 

As he spoke, she flung her arms about his neck and 
pressed her lips close, close against his cheek, her own 
glad face now fronting the little window. She heard 
the clicking of the latch, the opening of the door, and 
the step of the intruder ere she loosed her hold. 

"God bless you, Pop'm, and forgive me!— This is 
my husband." The new comer, Mr. Stanley, reached 
and grasped the hand of Mr. Twiggs, eagerly, fervidly, 
albeit the face he looked on then will haunt him to the 
hour of his death.— Yet haply, some day, when the 
Master takes the self-same hand within his own and 
whispers "Tude's come home," the old smile will return. 



AN IDYL OF THE KING 97 



AN IDYL OF THE KING 

Erewhile, as Autumn, to King Arthur's court 
Came Raelus, clamouring : " Lo, has our house 
Been sacked and pillaged by a lawless band 
Of robber knaves, led on by Alstanes, 
The Night-Flower named, because of her fair face, 
All like a lily gleaming in the dusk 
Of her dark hair — and like a lily brimmed 
With dewy eyes that drip their limpid smiles 
Like poison out, for by them has been wro't 
My elder brother's doom, as much I fear. 
While three days gone was holden harvest-feast 
At Lynion castle — clinging like a gull 
High up the gray cliffs of Caerleon — 
Came, leaf-like lifted from the plain below 
As by a twisted wind, a rustling pack 
Of bandit pillagers, with Alstanes 
Bright-fluttering like a red leaf in the front. 
And ere we were aware of fell intent — 
Not knowing whether it was friend or foe— 
We found us in their toils, and all the house 
In place of guests held only prisoners — 
Save that the host, my brother, wro't upon 
By the strange beauty of the robber queen, 
7 



98 AN IDYL OF THE KING 

Was left unfettered, but by silken threads 

Of fine-spun flatteries and wanton smiles 

Of the enchantress, till her villain thieves 

Had rifled as they willed and signal given 

To get to horse again. And so they went — 

Their leader flinging backward, as she rode, 

A kiss to my mad brother— mad since then, — 

For from that sorry hour he but talked 

Of Alstanes, and her rare beauty, and 

Her purity — aye, even that he said 

Was star-white, and should light his life with love 

Or leave him groping blindly in its quest 

Thro' all eternity. So, sighing, he 

Went wandering about till set of sun, 

Then got to horse, and bade us all farewell ; 

And with his glamoured eyes bent trancedly 

Upon the tumbled sands that marked the way 

The robber-woman went, he turned and chased 

His long black shadow o'er the edge of night." 

— So Raelus, all seemingly befret 
With such concern as nipped his utterance 
In scraps of speech : at which Sir Lancelot, 
Lifting a slow smile to the King, and then 
Turning his cool eye on the youth — "And you 
Would track this siren-robber to her hold 
And rout her rascal followers, and free 



AN IDYL OF THE KING 99 

Your brother from the meshes of this queen 

Of hearts — for there you doubtless think him? ,, 

"Ay!" 
Foamed Raelus, cheek flushed and eye aflame, — 
"So even have I tracked, and found them, too, 
And know their burrow, shrouded in a copse, 
Where, faring in my brother's quest, I heard 
The nicker of his horse, and followed on 
And found him tethered in a thicket wild, 
As tangled in its tress of leaf and limb 
As is a madman's hair ; and down the path 
That parted it and ran across a knoll 
And dipped again, all suddenly I came 
Upon a cave, wide-yawning 'neath a beard 
Of tangled moss and vine, whence issuing 
I heard, blown o'er my senses faint and clear 
As whiffs of summer wind, my brother's voice 
Lilting a love-song, with the burden tricked 
With dainty warblings of a woman's tongue: 
And even as I listening bent, I heard 
Such peals of wanton merriment as made 
My own heart flutter as a bird that beats 
For freedom at the bars that prison it. 
So turned I then, and fled as one who flies 
To save himself alone — forgetful all 
Of that my dearer self— my brother.— O ! " — 
Breaking as sharply as the icy blade 



loo AN IDYL OF THE KING 

That loosens from the eave to slice the air 
And splinter into scales of flying frost — 
"Thy help ! Thy help ! A dozen goodly knights — 
Aye, even that, if so it be their hearts 
Are hungry as my own to right the wrong ! " 

So Raelus. And Arthur graciously 

Gave ear to him, and, patient, heard him thro', 

And pitied him, and granted all he asked; 

Then took his hand and held it, saying, " Strong, 

And ever stronger may its grasp be knit 

About the sword that flashes in the cause 

Of good." 

Thus Raelus, on the morrow's front, 
Trapped like a knight and shining like a star, 
Pranced from the archway of the court, and led 
His glittering lances down the gleaming road 
That river-like ran winding till it slipped 
Out of the palace view and spilled their shields 
Like twinkling bubbles o'er the mountain brim. 

Then happed it that as Raelus rode, his tongue 
Kept even pace and cantered ever on 
Right merrily. His brother, as he said, 
Had such an idle soul within his breast- 
Such shallowness of fancy for his heart 
To drift about "in — that he well believed 
Its anchor would lay hold on any smile 



AN IDYL OF THE KING ioi 

The lees of womanhood might offer him. 
As for himself, he loved his brother well, 
Yet had far liefer see him stark and white 
In marble death than that his veins should burn 
With such vitality as spent its flame 
So garishly it knew no steady blaze, 
But ever wavered round as veered the wind 
Of his conceit; for he had made his boast— 
Tho' to his own shame did he speak of it — 
That with a wink he could buy every smile 
That virtue owned. So tattled Raelus 
Till, heated with his theme, he lifted voice 
And sang the song, " The Light of Woman's 
Eyes ! " 

"O bright is gleaming morn on mountain hight ; 
And bright the moon, slipt from its sheath of night,— 
But brighter is the light of woman's eyes. 

"And bright the dewdrop, trembling on the lip 
Of some red rose, or lily petal-tip, 
Or lash of pink,— but brighter woman's eyes. 

" Bright is the firefly's ever drifting spark 
That throbs its pulse of light out in the dark ; 
And bright the stars,— but brighter woman's eyes. 



102 AN IDYL OF THE KING 

" Bright morn or even ; bright or moon or star, 
And all the many twinkling lights that are, — 
O brighter than ye all are woman's eyes." 

So Raelus sang. — And they who rode with him 
Bewildered were, and even as he sang 
Went straggling, twos and threes, and fell behind 
To whisper wonderingly, " Is he a fool?" 
And "Does he waver in his mind?" and "Does 
The newness of adventure dazzle him?" 
So spake they each to each, till far beyond, 
With but one lothful knight in company, 
They saw him quit the beaten track, and turn 
Into the grassy margin of a wood. 
And loitering, they fell in mocking jest 
Of their strange leader! "See! why, see!" said 
one, — 

" He needs no help to fight his hornets' nest, 
But one brave knight to squire him ! "—pointing on 
To where fared on the two and disappeared. 

"O ay!" said one, "belike he is some old 
War-battered knight of long-forgotten age, 
That, bursting from his chrysalis, the grave, 
Comes back to show us tricks we never dreamed! " 

"Or haply," said another, with a laugh, — 

"He rides ahead to tell them that he comes, 
And shrive them ere his courage catches up." 
And merry made they all, and each in turn 



AN IDYL OF THE KING 103 

Fillipped a witty pellet at his head: 

Until, at last, their shadows shrunk away 

And shortened 'neath them and the hour was noon, 

They flung them from their horses listlessly 

Within the grassy margin of the wood 

Where had passed Raelus an hour agone: 

And, hungered, spied a rustic ; and they sent 

To have them such refreshment as might be 

Found at the nearest farm,— where, as it chanced, 

Was had most wholesome meat, and milk, and bread; 

And honey, too, celled in its fretted vase 

Of gummy gold, and dripping nectar-sweet 

As dreamed-of kisses from the lips of love; 

Wine, too, was broughten, rosy as the dawn 

That ushers in the morning of the heart; 

And tawny, mellow pear, whose golden ore 

Fell molten on the tongue and oozed away 

In creamy and delicious nothingness ; 

And netted melon, musky as the breath 

Of breezes blown from out the Orient; 

And purple clusterings of plum and grape, 

Blurred with a dust dissolving at the touch 

Like flakes the fairies had snowed over them. 

And as the idlers basked, with toast and song 

And graceful dalliance and wanton jest, 

A sound of trampling hooves and jingling reins 

Brake sudden, stilled them ; and from out a dim 



104 Ati IDYL OF THE KING 

Path leading from the bosky wood there came 
A troop of mounted damsels, nigh a score, 
Led by a queenly girl, in crimson clad, 
With lissome figure lithe and willowy, 
And face as fair and sweet and pure withal 
As might a maiden lily-blossom be 
Ere it has learned the sin of perfect bloom': 
Her hair, blown backward like a silken scarf 
And fondled by the sun, was glossier 
And bluer black than any raven's wing. 
" And O ! " she laughed, not knowing she was heard 
By any but her fellows : " Men are fools ! " 
Then drawing rein, and wheeling suddenly, 
Her charger mincing backward, — " Raelus — 
My Raelus is greater than ye all, 
Since he is such a fool that he forgets 
He is a man, and lets his tongue of love 
Run babbling like a silly child's ; and, pah ! 
I puff him to the winds like thistle-down ! " 
And, wheeling as she spake, found staring up, 
Wide-eyed and wondering, a group of knights, 
Half lifted, as their elbows propped their heads, 
Half lying ; and one, smirker than the rest, 
Stood bowing very low, with upturned eyes 
Lit with a twinkling smile: " Fair lady — and 
Most gracious gentlewomen " — seeing that 
The others drew them back as tho' abashed 



AN IDYL OF THE KING 105 

And veiled their faces with all modesty, 

Tho' she, their leader, showed not any qualm, — 

" Since all unwittingly we overheard 
Your latest speech, and since we know at last 

* All men are fools,' right glad indeed am I 
That such a nest of us remains for you 
To vanquish with those eyes." Then, serious, 
That she nor smiled nor winced, nor anything — 

" Your pardon will be to me as a shower 
Of gracious rain unto a panting drouth.' ' 
So bowed in humblest reverence; at which 
The damsel, turning to her followers, 
Laughed musically,— " See ! he proves my words !" 
Whereat the others joined with inward glee 
Her pealing mirth ; and in the merriment 
The knights chimed too, and he, the vanquished one, 
Till all the wood rang as at hunting-tide 
When bugle-rumors float about the air 
And echoes leap and revel in delight. 
Then spake the vanquished knight, with mental eye 
Sweeping the vantage-ground that chance had 
gained, — 

"Your further pardon, lady: Since the name 
Of Raelus fell from those lips of thine, 
We fain would know of him. He led us here, 
And as he went the way from whence your path 



106 AN IDYL OF THE KING 

Emerges, haply you may tell us where 
He may be found?" 

"What! Raelus?" she cried - 
"He comes with you? — The brave Sir Raelus? — 
That mighty champion? — that gallant knight? — 
That peerless wonder of all nobleness ? 
Then proud am I to greet ye, knowing that; 
And, certes, had I known of it ere now, 
Then had I proffered you more courtesy, 
And told you, ere the asking, that he bides 
The coming of his friends a league from this, 
Hard by a reedy mere, where in high tune 
We left him singing, nigh an hour agone." 
Then, as she lightly wheeled her horse about 
And signal gave to her companions 
To follow, gaily cried: "Tell Raelus 
His cousin sends to him her sad farewells 
And fond regrets, and kisses many as 
His valorous deeds are numbered in her heart." 
And with " Fair morrow to ye, gentle knights! " 
Her steed's hooves struck the highway at a bound ; 
And dimly thro' the dust they saw her lead 
Her fluttering cavalcade as recklessly 
As might a queen of Araby, fleet-horsed, 
Skim o'er the level sands of Syria. 
So vanished. And the knights with one accord 
Put foot in stirrup, and with puzzled minds 



AN IDYL OF THE KING 107 



And many-channeled marvelings, filed in 

The woody path, and fared them on and on 

Thro' denser glooms, and ways more intricate ; 

Till, mystified at last and wholly lost, 

They made full halt, and would have turned them 

back 
But that a sudden voice brake on their ears 
All piteous and wailing, as distressed : 
And, following these cries, they sharply came 
Upon an open road that circled round 
A reedy flat and sodden tract of sedge, 
Moated with stagnant water, crusted thick 
With slimy moss, wherein were wriggling things 
Entangled, and blind bubbles bulging up 
And bursting where from middle way upshot 
A tree-trunk, with its knarled and warty hands 
As tho' upheld to clutch at sliding snakes 
Or nip the wet wings of the dragonfly. 
Here gazing, lo ! they saw their comrade, he 
That had gone on with Raelus ; and he 
Was tugging to fling back into its place 
A heavy log that once had spanned the pool 
And made a footway to the sedgy flat 
Whence came the bitter wailing cries they heard. 
Then hastened they to join him in his task ; 
But, panting, as they asked of Raelus, 
All winded with his work, yet jollier 



108 AN IDYL OF THE KING 

Than meadow-lark at morn, he sent his voice 
In such a twittering of merriment, 
The wail of sorrow died and laughter strewed 
Its grave with melody. 

"O Raelus! 
Rare Raelus ! " he cried and clapped his hands, 
And even in the weeds that edged the pool 
Fell wrestling with his mirth. — " Why, Raelus," 
He said, when he at last could speak again, 
" Drew magnet-like — you know that talk of his, — 
And so, adhesive, did I cling and cling 
Until I found us in your far advance, 
And, hidden in the wood, I stayed to say 
Twas better we should bide your coming. * No.' 
Then on again ; and still a second time — 
'Shall we not bide their coming?' 'No!' he said; 
And on again, until the third ; and ' No— 
We'll push a little further.' As we did ; 
And, sudden, came upon an open glade- 
There to the northward, — by a thicket bound : 
Then he dismounted, giving me his rein, 
And, charging me to keep myself concealed, 
And if he were not back a certain time 
To ride for you and search where he had gone, 
He crossed the opening and passed from sight 
Within the thicket. I was curious: 
And so, dismounting, tethered our two steeds 



AN IDYL OF THE KING 109 

And followed him ; and, creeping warily, 

Came on him where — unseen of him — I saw 

Him pause before the cave himself described 

Before us yester-noon. And here he put 

His fingers to his lips and gave a call 

Bird-like and quavering : at which a face, 

As radiant as summer sun at morn, 

Parted the viny courtains of the cave ; 

And then, a moment later, came in view, 

A woman even fairer than my sight 

Might understand. ' What ! dare you come again ? ' 

She said, as, lifting up her eyes all flashingly, 

She scorched him with a look of hate. — 'Begone! 

Or have you — traitor, villain, knave and cur, — 

Bro't minions of the law to carry out 

The vengeance of your whimpering jealousy?' 

Then Raelus, all cowering before 

Her queenly anger, faltered : ' Hear me yet ; 

I do not threaten. But your love — your love! — 

O give me that. I know you pure as dew : 

Your love! Your love!— The smile that has gone 

out 
And left my soul a midnight of despair! — 
Your love or life! For I have even now 
Your stronghold girt about with certain doom 
If you but waver in your choice. — Your love ! ' 
At which, as quick as tho't, leapt on him there 



no AN IDYL OF THE KING 

A strong man from the covert of the gloom ; 
And others, like to him, from here and there 
Came skurrying. I, turning, would have fled, 
And tied and tumbled there with Raelus. 
And him they haltered by his squirming heels 
Until he did confess such villainy 
As made me wonder if his wits were sound — 
Confessed himself a renegade — a thief — 
Aye, even one of them, save that he knew 
Not that nice honour even thieves may claim 
Among themselves. — And so ran on thro' such 
A catalogue of littlenesses, I 
For deafest shame had even stopped my ears 
But that my wrists were lockt. And when he came 
To his confession of his lie at court, 
By which was gained our knightly sympathy 
And valiant service on this fools' crusade, 
I seemed to feel the redness of my blush 
Soak thro' my very soul. There I brake in : 
1 Fair lady and most gallant, — to my shame 
Do I admit we have been duped by such 
An ingrate as this bundled lump of flesh 
That I am helpless to rise up and spurn : 
Unbind me, and I promise such amends 
As knightly hands may deign to wreak upon 
A thing so vile as he.' Then, laughing, she : 



AN IDYL OF THE KING m 

1 First tell me, by your honor, where await 
Your knightly brothers and my enemies.' 
To which I answered, truthfully, I knew 
Not where you lingered, but not close at hand 
I was assured. Then all abrupt, she turned : 

1 Get every one within ! We ride at once ! ' 
And scarce a dozen minutes ere they came 
Out-pouring from the cave in such a guise 
As made me smile from very wonderment. — 
From head to heel in woman's dress they came, 
Clad richly, too, and trapped and tricked withal 
As maidenly, but in the face and hand, 
As ever damsels flock at holiday. 
Then were their chargers bro't, caparisoned 
In keeping ; and they mounted, lifting us, 
Still bounden, with much jest and mockery 
Of soft caress and wanton blandishments, 
As tho' they were of sex their dress declared. 
And so they carried us until they came 
Upon the road there as it nicks the copse; 
And so drew rein, dismounted, leaving some 
To guard their horses ; hurried us across 
This footway to the middle of the flat. 
Here Raelus was bounden to a tree, 
Stript to the waist; my fetters cut, 
A long, keen switch put in my hand, and * Strike ! 
Strike as all duty bids you!' said the queen. 



H2 AN IDYL OF THE KING 

And so I did, with right good will at first; 
Till, softened as I heard the wretch's prayers 
Of anguish, I at last withheld my hand. 
'What! tiring?' chirpt the queen: ' Give me the 

stick ! ' 
And swish, and swish, and mercy how it rained ! 
Then all the others, forming circlewise, 
Danced round and round the howling wretch, and 

jeered 
And japed at him, and mocked and scoffed at him, 
And spat upon him. And I turned away 
And hid my face; then raised it pleadingly: 
Nor would they listen my appeal for him ; 
But left him so, and thonged and took me bach 
Across the mere, and drew the bridge, that none 
Might go to him, and carried me with them 
Far on their way, and freed me once again ; 
And back I turned, tho' loth, to succor him." 
And even as he ceased they heard the wail 
Break out anew, and crossed without a word, 
And Raelus they found, and without word 
They loosed him. And he brake away and ran 
As runs a lie the truth is hard upon. 

Thus did it fare with Raelus. And they 
Who knew of it said naught at court of it; 
Nor from that day spake ever of him once, 
Nor heard of him again, nor cared to hear. 



DOLORES 113 



DOLORES 

LITHE-ARMED, and with satin-soft shoulders 

As white as the cream-crested wave; 
With a gaze dazing every beholder's, 

She holds every gazer a slave : 
Her hair, a fair haze, is outfloated 

And flared in the air like a flame ; 
Bare-breasted, bare-browed and bare-throated— 

Too smooth for the soothliest name. 

She wiles you with wine, and wrings for you 

Ripe juices of citron and grape ; 
She lifts up her lute and sings for you 

Till the soul of you seeks no escape; 
And you revel and reel with mad laughter, 

And fall at her feet, at her beck, 
And the scar of her sandal thereafter 

You wear like a gyve round your neck. 



114 IV HEN I DO MOCK 



WHEN I DO MOCK 

WHEN I do mock the blackness of the night 

With my despair — outweep the very dews 

And wash my wan cheeks stark of all delight, 

Denying every counsel of dear use 

In mine embittered state; with infinite 

Perversity, mine eyes drink in no sight 

Of pleasance that nor moon nor stars refuse 

In silver largess and gold twinklings bright; — 

I question me what mannered brain is mine 

That it doth trick me of the very food 

It panteth for— the very meat and wine 

That yet should plump my starved soul with good 

And comfortable plethora of ease, 

That I might drowse away such rhymes as these. 



MY MARY 115 



MY MARY 

MY Mary, O my Mary! 

The simmer-skies are blue: 
The dawnin' brings the dazzle, 

An' the gloamin' brings the dew, — 
The mirk 0' nicht the glory 

O' the moon, an' kindles, too, 
The stars that shift aboon the lift. — 

But nae thing brings me you ! 

Where is it, O my Mary, 

Ye are biding a' the while? 
I ha' wended by your window— 

I ha' waited by the stile, 
An' up an' down the river 

1" ha' won for mony a mile, 
Yet never found, adrift or drown'd, 

Your lang-belated smile. 

Is it forgot, my Mary, 

How glad we used to be? — 
The simmer-time when bonny bloomed 

The auid trysting-tree, — 
How there I carved the name for you, 

An' you the name for me; 
An' the gloamin' kenned it only 

When we kissed sae tenderly. 



Ii6 MY MARY 



Speek ance to me, my Mary! — 

But whisper in my ear 
As light as ony sleeper's breath, 

An' a' my soul will hear; 
My heart shall stap its beating, 

An' the soughing atmosphere 
Be hushed the while I leaning smile 

An' listen to you, dear! 

My Mary, O my Mary! 

The blossoms bring the bees; 
The sunshine brings the blossoms, 

An' the leaves on a' the trees ; 
The simmer brings the sunshine 

An' the fragrance o' the breeze, — 
But O wi'out you, Mary, 

I care nae thing for these! 

We were sae happy, Mary! 

O think how ance we said — 
Wad ane o' us gae fickle, 

Or ane o' us lie dead, — 
To feel anither's kisses 

We wad feign the auld instead, 
An' ken the ither's footsteps 

In the green grass owerhead. 



MY MARY 117 



My Mary, O my Mary! 

Are ye dochter 0' the air, 
That ye vanish aye before me 

As I follow everywhere? — 

Or is it ye are only 

But a mortal, wan wi' care? — 
Syne I search through a' the kirkyird 
An' I dinna find ye there. 



EROS 

The storm of love has burst at last 
Full on me: All the world, before, 
Was like an alien, unknown shore 

Along whose verge I laughing passed. — 
But now — / laugh not any more, — 

Bowed with a silence vast in weight 
As that which falls on one who stands 
For the first time on ocean sands, 

Seeing and feeling all the great 
Awe of the waves as they wash the lands 

And billow and wallow and undulate. 



(118) 



ORLIE WILDE 

A GODDESS, with a siren's grace — 
A sun-haired girl on a craggy place 
Above a bay where fish-boats lay 
Drifting about like birds of prey. 

Wrought was she of a painter's dream,- 

Wise only as are artists wise, 

My artist-friend, Rolf Herschkelhiem, 

With deep sad eyes of oversize, 

And face of melancholy guise. 

I pressed him that he tell to me 
This masterpiece's history. 
He turned — returned— and thus beguiled 
Me with the tale of Orlie Wilde: — 

1 W r e artists live ideally : 
We breed our firmest facts of air; 
We make our own reality — 
We dream a thing and it is so. 
The fairest scenes we ever see 
Are mirages of memory ; 
(119) 



120 ORLIE WILDE 



The sweetest thoughts we ever know 
We plagiarize from Long-ago : 
And as the girl on canvas there 
Is marvelously rare and fair, 
'Tis only inasmuch as she 
Is dumb and may not speak to me! } ' 
He tapped me with his maulstick— then 
The picture,— and went on again : 

"Orlie Wilde, the fisher's child — 
I see her yet, as fair and mild 
As ever nursling summer-day 
Dreamed on the bosom of the bay: 
For I was twenty then, and went 
Alone and long-haired— all content 
With promises of sounding name 
And fantasies of future fame, 
And thoughts that now my^mind discards 
As editor a fledgling bard's. 

"At evening once I chanced to go, 
With pencil and portfolio, 
Adown the street of silver sand 
That winds beneath this craggy land, 
To make a sketch of some old scurf 
Of driftage, nosing through the surf 
A splintered mast, with knarl and strand 



ORLIE WILDE 121 



Of rigging-rope and tattered threads 

Of flag and streamer and of sail 

That fluttered idly in the gale 

Or whipped themselves to sadder shreds. 

The while I wrought, half listlessly, 

On my dismantled subject, came 

A sea-bird, settling on the same 

With plaintive moan, as though that he 

Had lost his mate upon the sea ; 

And — with my melancholy trend — 

It brought dim dreams half understood— 

It wrought upon my morbid mood,— 

I thought of my own voyagings 

That had no end — that have no end. — 

And, like the sea-bird, I made moan 

That I was loveless and alone. 

And when at last with weary wings 

It went upon its wanderings, 

With upturned face I watched its flight 

Until this picture met my sight: 

A goddess, with a siren's grace, — 

A sun-haired girl on a craggy place 

Above a bay where fish-boats lay 

Drifting about like birds of prey. 

1 In airy poise she, gazing, stood 
A matchless form of womanhood, 



122 ORLIE WILDE 



That brought a thought that if for me 
Such eyes had sought across the sea, 
I could have swam the widest tide 
That ever mariner defied, 
And, at the shore, could on have gone 
To that high crag she stood upon, 
To there entreat and say ' My Sweet, 
Behold thy servant at thy feet.' 
And to my soul I said: 'Above, 
There stands the idol of thy love ! ' 

"In this rapt, awed, ecstatic state 
I gazed — till lo! I was aware 
A fisherman had joined her there — 
A weary man, with halting gait, 
Who toiled beneath a basket's weight: 
Her father, as I guessed, for she 
Had run to meet him gleefully 
And ta'en his burden to herself, 
That perched upon her shoulder's shelf 
So lightly that she, tripping, neared 
A jutting crag and disappeared; 
But left the echo of a song 
That thrills me yet, and will as long 
As I have being ! 

" Evenings came 

And went, — but eacji the same— the same: 



ORL1E WILDE 123 



She watched above, and even so 
I stood there watching from below; 
Till, grown so bold at last, I sung, — 
(What matter now the theme thereof !)- 
It brought an answer from her tongue- 
Faint as the murmur of a dove, 
Yet all the more the song of love .... 

" I turned and looked upon the bay, 
With palm to forehead — eyes a-blur 
In the sea's smile— meant but for her !- 
I saw the fish-boats far away 
In misty distance, lightly drawn 
In chalk-dots on the horizon — 
Looked back at her, long, wistfully, — 
And, pushing off an empty skiff, 
I beckoned her to quit the cliff 
And yield me her rare company 
Upon a little pleasure cruise. — 
She stood, as lothful to refuse — 
To muse for full a moment's time, — 
Then answered back in pantomime 

* She feared some danger from the sea 
Were she discovered thus with me.' 
I motioned then to ask her if 
I might not join her on the cliff; 
And back again, with graceful wave 



124 ORLIE WILDE 



Of lifted arm, she answer gave 
'She feared some danger from the sea.' 

"Impatient, piqued, impetuous, I 
Sprang in the boat, and flung ' Good-bye' 
From pouted mouth with angry hand, 
And madly pulled away from land 
With lusty stroke, despite that she 
Held out her hands entreatingly : 
And when far out, with covert eye 
I shoreward glanced, I saw her fly 
In reckless haste adown the crag, 
Her hair a-flutter like a flag 
Of gold that danced across the strand 
In little mists of silver sand. 
AH curious I, pausing, tried 
To fancy what it all implied, — 
When suddenly I found my feet 
Were wet: and, underneath the seat 
On which I sat, I heard the sound 
Of gurgling waters, and I found 
The boat aleak alarmingly. . . . 
I turned and looked upon the sea, 
Whose every wave seemed mocking me ; 
I saw the fishers' sails once more — 
In dimmer distance than before : 
I saw the sea-bird wheeling by. 



ORLIE WILDE 125 



With foolish wish that / could fly : 

I thought of firm earth, home and friends- 

I thought of everything that tends 

To drive a man to frenzy and 

To wholly lose his own command ; 

I thought of all my waywardness — 

Thought of a mother's deep distress ; 

Of youthful follies yet unpurged— 

Sins, as the seas, about me surged — 

Thought of the printer's ready pen 

Tomorrow drowning me again ; — 

A million things without a name — 

I thought of everything but— Fame. . . . 

'A memory yet is in my mind, 
So keenly clear and sharp-defined, 
I picture every phase and line 
Of life and death, and neither mine, — 
While some fair seraph, golden-haired, 
Bends over me,— with white arms bared, 
That strongly plait themselves about 
My drowning weight and lift me out — 
With joy too great for words to state 
Or tongue to dare articulate! 



'And this seraphic ocean-child 
And heroine was Orlie Wilde : 
And thus it was I came to hear 



126 ORLIE WILDE 



Her voice's music in my ear — 

Aye, thus it was Fate paved the way 

That I walk desolate today! " 

The artist paused and bowed his face 
Within his palms a little space, 
While reverently on his form 
I bent my gaze and marked a storm 
That shook his frame as wrathfully 
As some typhoon of agony, 
And fraught with sobs — the more profound 
For that peculiar laughing sound 
We hear when strong men weep .... I lent 
With warmest sympathy— I bent 
To stroke with soothing hand his brow, 
He murmuring— "Tis over now! — 
And shall I tie the silken thread 
Of my frail romance? , ' "Yes," 1 said.— 
He faintly smiled ; and then, with brow 
In kneading palm, as one in dread— 
His tasseled cap pushed from his head ; — 
"'Her voice's music,' I repeat," 

He said, — "'twas sweet— O passing sweet!- 
Though she herself, in uttering 
Its melody, proved not the thing 
Of loveliness my dreams made meet 
For me— there, yearning, at her feet— 



ORLIE WILDE 127 



Prone at her feet — a worshiper, — 
For lo ! she spake a tongue,'- moaned he, 
1 Unknown to me ; — unknown to me 
As mine to her — as mine to her." 



128 LEONAINIE 



LEONAINIE 

LEONAINIE— Angels named her; 

And they took the light 
Of the laughing stars and framed her 
In a smile of white ; 

And they made her hair of gloomy 
Midnight, and her eyes of bloomy 
Moonshine, and they brought her to me 
In the solemn night. — 

In a solemn night of summer, 

When my heart of gloom 
Blossomed up to greet the comer 
Like a rose in bloom ; 

All forebodings that distressed me 
I forgot as Joy caressed me — 
{Lying Joy ! that caught and pressed me 
In the arms of doom !) 

Only spake the little lisper 

In the Angel-tongue; 
Yet I, listening, heard her whisper— 
" Songs are only sung 

Here below that they may grieve you — 
Tales but told you to deceive you, — 
So must Leonainie leave you 
While her love is young. " 



LEON AW IE 129 



Then God smiled and it was morning. 

Matchless and supreme , 
Heaven's glory seemed adorning 
Earth with its esteem : 

Every heart but mine seemed gifted 
With the voice of prayer, and lifted 
Where my Leonainie drifted 
From me like a dream. 



130 TO A JILTED SIVA IN 



TO A JILTED SWAIN 

GET thee back neglected friends; 
And repay, as each one lends, 
Tithes of shallow-sounding glee 
Or keen-ringing raillery: 
Get thee from lone vigils ; be 
But in jocund company, 
Where is laughter and acclaim 
Boisterous above the name. — 
Get where sulking husbands sip 
Alehouse cheer, with pipe at lip; 
And where Mol the barmaid saith 
Curst is she that marryeth. 



THE VOICES 131 



THE VOICES 

DOWN in the night I hear them : 
The Voices — unknown — unguessed, — 

That whisper, and lisp, and murmur, 
And will not let me rest. — 

Voices that seem to question, 

In unknown words, of me, 
Of fabulous ventures, and hopes and dreams 

Of this and the World to be. 

Voices of mirth and music, 

As in sumptuous homes ; and sounds 
Of mourning, as of gathering friends 

In country burial-grounds. 

Cadence of maiden voices — 

Their lovers' blent with these ; 
And of little children singing, 

As under orchard trees. 

And often, up from the chaos 

Of my deepest dreams, I hear 
Sounds of their phantom laughter 

Filling the atmosphere: 



132 THE VOICES 



They call to me from the darkness ; 

They cry to me from the gloom, 
Till I start sometimes from my pillow 

And peer through the haunted room ; 

When the face of the moon at the window 

Wears a pallor like my own, 
And seems to be listening with me 

To the low, mysterious tone, — 

The low, mysterious clamor 

Of voices that seem to be 
Striving in vain to whisper 

Of secret things to me ; — 

Of a something dread to be warned of; 

Of a rapture yet withheld ; 
Or hints of the marvelous beauty 

Of songs unsyllabled. 

But ever and ever the meaning 

Falters and fails and dies, 
And only the silence quavers 

With the sorrow of my sighs. 



THE VOICES 133 



And I answer: — O Voices, ye may not 

Make me to understand 
Till my own voice, mingling with you, 

Laughs in the Shadow-land. 



A BAREFOOT BOY 

A BAREFOOT BOY! I mark him at his play — 
For May is here once more, and so is he, — 
His dusty trousers, rolled half to the knee, 

And his hare ankles grimy, too, as they : 

Cross-hatchings of the nettle, in array 
Of feverish stripes, hint vividly to me 
Of woody pathways winding endlessly 

Along the creek, where even yesterday 

He plunged his shrinking body — gasped and shook — 
Yet called the water "warm," with never lack 

Of joy. And so, half enviously I look 

Upon this graceless barefoot and his track, — 

His toe stubbed — aye, his big toe-nail knocked back 

Like unto the clasp of an old pocket-book. 



(134) 



THE YOUTHFUL PATRIOT 

O WHAT did the little boy do 
'At nobody wanted him to? 
Didn't do nothin' but romp an' run, 
An' whoop an' holler an' bang his gun 
An' bust fire-crackers, an' ist have fun- 
An' 9 afs all the little bov done! 



(135) 



136 PONCHUS PILUT 



PONCHUS PILUT 

PONCHUS PILUT used to be 
1st a Slave, an' now he's free. 
Slaves wuz on'y ist before 
The War wuz — an' ain't no more. 

He works on our place fer us, — 
An' comes here — sometimes he does. 
He shocks corn an' shucks it. — An' 
He makes hominy "by han' !" — 

Wunst he bringed us some, one trip, 
Tied up in a piller-slip : 
Pa says, when Ma cooked it, "MY! 
This-here's gooder'n you buy!" 

Ponchus pats fer me an' sings ; 
An' he says most funny things ! 
Ponchus calls a dish a "deesh" — 
Yes, an' he calls fishes "feesh"\ 

When Ma want him eat wiv us 
He says, " 'Skuse me — 'deed you mus' !- 
Ponchus know good manners, Miss.— 
He aint eat wrier' White-folks is ! " 



PONCHUS PILUT 137 



'Lindy takes his dinner out 
Wher' he's workin' — roun' about. — 
Wunst he et his dinner, spread 
In our ole wheel-borry-bed. 

Ponchus Pilut says " 9 at 9 s not 
His right name, — an' done f ergot 
What his sho 9 -nuff name is now — 
An' don' matter none /zohow!" 

Yes, an' Ponchus he'ps Pa, too, 
When our butcheries to do, 
An' scalds hogs — an' says " Take care 
'Bout it, er you'll set the hair! 11 

Yes, an' out in our back-yard 
He he'ps 'Lindy rendur lard ; 
An', wite in the fire there, he 
Roast' a pig-tail wunst fer me. — 

An' 'ist nen th'ole tavurn-bell 

Rung, down town, an' he says "Well!- 

Hear dat! Lan 9 o 9 Caanan, Son, 

Aint dat bell say 'Pig-tail done.' 9 

— c Pig-tail done ! 
Go call Son ! — 
Tell dat 
Chile dat 
Pig- tail done ! ' ' 



138 A TIVJNTORETTE 



A TWINTORETTE 

HO! my little maiden 

With the glossy tresses, 
Come thou and dance with me 
A measure all divine; 
Let my breast be laden 

With but thy caresses- 
Come thou and glancingly 
Mate thy face with mine. 

Thou shalt trill a rondel, 

While my lips are purling 
Some dainty twitterings 
Sweeter than the birds'; 
And, with arms that fondle 
Each as we go twirling, 
We will kiss, with titterings, 
Lisps and loving words. 



SLUMBER-SONG 139 



SLUMBER-SONG 

SLEEP, little one! The Twilight folds her gloom 

Full tenderly about the drowsy Day, 
And all his tinseled hours of light and bloom 
Like toys are laid away. 

Sleep! sleep! The noon-sky's airy cloud of white 

Has deepened wide o'er all the azure plain ; 
And, trailing through the leaves, the skirts of Night 
Are wet with dews as rain. 

But rest thou sweetly, smiling in thy dreams, 

With round fists tossed like roses o'er thy head, 
And thy tranc'd lips and eyelids kissed with gleams 
Of rapture perfected. 



140 THE CIRCUS PARADE 



THE CIRCUS PARADE 

THE CIRCUS !— The Circus !— The throb of the drums, 
And the blare of the horns, as the Band-wagon comes ; 
The clash and the clang of the cymbals that beat, 
As the glittering pageant winds down the long street ! 

In the Circus parade there is glory clean down 
From the first spangled horse to the mule of the Clown, 
With the gleam and the glint and the glamour and glare 
Of the days of enchantment all glimmering there ! 

And there are the banners of silvery fold 
Caressing the winds with their fringes of gold, 
And their high-lifted standards, with spear-tips aglow, 
And the helmeted knights that go riding below. 

There's the Chariot, wrought of some marvelous shell 
The Sea gave to Neptune, first washing it well 
With its fabulous waters of gold, till it gleams 
Like the galleon rare of an Argonaut's dreams. 

And the Elephant, too, (with his undulant stride 
That rocks the high throne of a king in his pride), 
That in jungles of India shook from his flanks 
The tigers that leapt from the Jujubee-banks. 



THE CIRCUS PARADE 141 

Here's the long, ever-changing, mysterious line 
Of the Cages, with hints of their glories divine 
From the barred little windows, cut high in the rear, 
Where the close-hidden animals' noses appear. 

Here's the Pyramid-car, with its splendor and flash, 
And the Goddess on high, in a hot-scarlet sash 
And a pen-wiper skirt!— O the rarest of sights 
Is this " Queen of the Air" in cerulean tights! 

Then the far-away clash of the cymbals, and then 
The swoon of the tune ere it wakens again 
With the capering tones of the gallant cornet 
That go dancing away in a mad minute. 

The Circus ! — The Circus !— The throb of the drums, 
And the blare of the horns, as the Band-wagon comes ; 
The clash and the clang of the cymbals that beat, 
As the glittering pageant winds down the long street. 



142 FOLKS AT LONESOMEWLLE 



FOLKS AT LONESOMEVILLE 

PORE-FOLKS lives at Lonesomeville- 

Lawzy ! but they're pore ! 
Houses with no winders in, 

And hardly any door: 
Chimbly all tore down, and no 

Smoke in that at all — 
1st a stovepipe through a hole 

In the kitchen-wall! 

Pump that's got no handle on ; 

And no woodshed — And, wooh! — 
Mighty cold there, choppin' wood, 

Like pore-folks has to do! — 
Winter-time, and snow and sleet 

1st fairly fit to kill !— 
Hope to goodness SanPy Claus 

Goes to Lonesomeville ! 



THE THREE JOLLY HUNTERS 143 



THE THREE JOLLY HUNTERS 

O THERE were three jolly hunters ; 

And a-hunting they did go, 
With a spaniel-dog, and a pointer-dog, 

And a setter-dog also. 

Looky there! 

And they hunted and they hal-looed ; 

And the first thing they did find 
Was a dingling-dangling hornet's-nest 

A-swinging in the wind. 

Looky there! 

And the first one said— " What is it?" 

Said the next, " We'll punch and see:" 
And the next one said, a mile from there, 
"I wish we'd let it be!" 

Looky there! 

And they hunted and they hal-looed ; 

And the next thing they did raise 
Was a bobbin' bunnie cotton-tail 

That vanished from their gaze. 

Looky there ! 



144 THE THREE JOLLY HUNTERS 

One said it was a hot baseball, 
Zippt through the brambly thatch, 

But the others said 'twas a note by post, 
Or a telegraph-dispatch: 

Looky there ! 

So they hunted and they hal-looed ; 

And the next thing they did sight 
Was a great big bulldog chasing them, 

And a farmer, hollerm' "Skite!" 
Looky there! 

And the first one said, " Hi-jinktum ! " 
And the next, " Hi-jinktum-jee ! " 

And the last one said, "Them very words 
Had just occurred to me ! 

Looky there!" 



THE LITTLE DOG-WOGGY 145 



THE LITTLE DOG-WOGGY 
A Little Dog-Woggy 

Once walked round the World : 
So he shut up his house ; and, forgetting 
His two puppy-children 
Locked in there, he curled 
Up his tail in pink bombazine netting, 
And set out 
To walk round 
The World. 

He walked to Chicago, 
And heard of the Fair — 
Walked on to New York, where he never, - 
In fact, he discovered 
That many folks there 
Thought less of Chicago than ever, 
As he musing- 
Ly walked round 
The World. 

He walked on to Boston, 

And round Bunker Hill, 

Bow-wowed, but no citizen heered him— 

Till he ordered his baggage 

And called for his bill, 
10 



146 THE LITTLE DOG-WOGGY 

And then, bless their souls ! how they cheered 

him, 
As he gladly 
Walked on round 

The World. 

He walked and walked on 
For a year and a day — 
Dropped down at his own door and panted, 
Till a teamster came driving 
Along the highway 
And told him that house there was ha'nted 
By the two starve- 
Dest pups in 
The World. 



CHARMS 147 



CHARMS 

I 

FOR CORNS AND THINGS 

PRUNE your corn in the gray of the morn 

With a blade that's shaved the dead, 
And barefoot go and hide it so 

The rain will rust it red: 
Dip your foot in the dew and put 

A print of it on the floor, 
And stew the fat of a brindle cat, 
And say this o'er and o'er:— 
Corny ! morny ! bladey ! dead ! 
Gorey ! sorey ! rusty ! red ! 
Footsy! putsy! floory! stew! 
Fatsy! catsy! 

Mew ! 
Mew! 
Come grease my corn 
In the gray of the morn ! 
Mew! Mew! Mew! 



148 CHARMS 



TO REMOVE FRECKLES— SCOTCH ONES 

GAE the mirkest night an' stan' 
Twixt twa graves, ane either han'; 
WP the right han , fumblin , ken 
Wha the deid mon's name's ance ben,- 
Wi' the ither han' sae read 
Wha's neist neebor o' the deid; 
An it be or wife or lass, 
Smoor tha twa han's i' the grass, 
Weshin' either wi' the ither, 
Then tha faice wi' baith thegither ; 
Syne ye' 11 seeket at cock-craw— 
Ilka freeckle's gang awa! 



A FEW OF THE BIRD-FAMILY 149 



A FEW OF THE BIRD-FAMILY 

THE Old Bob-White, and Chipbird ; 

The Flicker, and Chee-wink, 
And little hopty-skip bird 

Along the river-brink. 

The Blackbird, and Snowbird, 
The Chicken-hawk, and Crane; 

The glossy old black Crow-bird, 
And Buzzard down the lane. 

The Yellow-bird, and Redbird, 
The Tom-Tit, and the Cat; 

The Thrush, and that Red/z^i-bird 
The rest's all pickin' at! 

The Jay-bird, and the Bluebird, 
The Sap-suck, and the Wren— 

The Cockadoodle-doo-bird, 
And our old Settin'-hen ! 



150 THROUGH SLEEPY-LAND 



THROUGH SLEEPY-LAND 

WHERE do you go when you go to sleep, 

Little Boy! Little Boy! where? 
'Way — 'way in where's Little Bo-Peep, 
And Little Boy Blue, and the Cows and Sheep 

A-wandering 'way in there— in there — 
A-wandering 'way in there! 

And what do you see when lost in dreams, 

Little Boy, 'way in there? 
Firefly-glimmers and glowworm-gleams, 
And silvery, low, slow-sliding streams, 

And mermaids, smiling out — 'way in where 
They're a-hiding — 'way in there! 

Where do you go when the Fairies call, 

Little Boy! Little Boy! where? 
Wade through the dews of the grasses tall, 
Hearing the weir and the waterfall 

And the Wee Folk — 'way in there — in there — 
And the Kelpies — 'way in there! 



THROUGH SLEEPY-LAND 151 

And what do you do when you wake at dawn, 
Little Boy! Little Boy! what? 

Hug my Mommy and kiss her on 

Her smiling eyelids, sweet and wan, 
And tell her everything I've forgot 
About, a-wandering \vay in there — 
Through the blind-world Vay in there ! 



152 THE TRESTLE AND THE BUCKS AlV 



THE TRESTLE AND THE BUCK-SAW 

THE Trestle and the Buck-Saw 

Went out a-walking once, 
And staid away and staid away 

For days and weeks and months : 
And when they got back home again, 

Of all that had occurred, 
The neighbors said the gossips said 

They never said a word. 



THE KING OF OO-RINKTUM-JING 1 5 3 



THE KING OF OO-RINKTUM-JING 

DAINTY Baby Austin! 

Your Daddy's gone to Boston 

To see the King 

Of Oo-Rinktum-Jing 
And the whale he rode acrost on ! 

Boston Town's a city: 
But O its such a pity!— 

They'll greet the King 

Of Oo-Rinktum-Jing 
With never a nursery ditty! 

But me and you and Mother 
Can stay with Baby-brother, 

And sing of the King 

Of Oo-Rinktum-Jing 
And laugh at one-another! 

So what cares Baby Austin 
If Daddy has gone to Boston 

To see the King 

Of Oo-Rinktum-Jing 
And the whale he rode acrost on? 



154 THE TOY PENNY-DOG 



THE TOY PENNY-DOG 

MA put my Penny-Dog 

Safe on the shelf, 
And left no one home but him, 

Me and myself; 
So I climbed a big chair 

I pushed to the wall- 
But the Toy Penny-Dog 

Aint there at all ! 
I went back to Dolly — 

And she 'uz gone too, 
And little Switch 'uz layin' there ;- 

And Ma says "Boo!"— 
And there she wuz a-peepin' 

Through the front-room door : 
And I aint goin' to be a bad 

Little girl no more! 



JARGON-JINGLE 155 



JARGON-JINGLE 

TAWDERY !— faddery ! Feathers and fuss ! 
Mummery !— flummery ! wusser and wuss ! 
All o' Humanity — Vanity Fair! — 
Heaven for nothing and — nobody there! 



156 THE GREAT EXPLORER 



THE GREAT EXPLORER 

HE sailed o'er the weltery watery miles 

For a tabular year-and-a-day, 
To the kindless, kinkable Cannibal Isles 

He sailed and he sailed away! 
He captured a loon in a wild lagoon 

And a yak that weeps and smiles, 
And a bustard-bird, and a blue baboon, 

In the kindless Cannibal Isles 
And wilds 
Of the kinkable Cannibal Isles. 

He swiped in bats with his butterfly-net, 

In the kinkable Cannibal Isles, 
And got short-waisted and over-het 

In the haunts of the crocodiles ; 
And nine or ten little Pigmy Men 

Of the quaintest shapes and styles 
He shipped back home to his old Aunt Jenn ? 

From the kindless Cannibal Isles 
And wilds 
Of the kinkable Cannibal Isles. 



THE SCHOOLBOY'S FAVORITE 157 



THE SCHOOLBOYS FAVORITE 

Over the river and through' the wood 
Now Grandmother's cap I spy : 

Hurrah for the fun ! Is the pudding done ? 
Hurrah for the pumpkin-pie ! 

—School Reader. 

FER any boy 'at's little as me, 

Er any little girl, 
That-un's the goodest poetry-piece 

In any book in the worl' ! 
An' ef grown-peoples wuz little ag'in 

I bet they'd say so, too, 
Ef they'd go see their ole Gran'ma, 

Like our Pa lets us do ! 

Over the river an' through the wood 

Now Grandmother's cap I spy : 
Hurrah fer the fun ! — Is the puddin' done ? — 

Hurrah fer the punkin-pie ! 

An' '11 tell you why 'at's the goodest piece; 

'Cause it's ist like we go 
To our Gran'ma's, a-visitun there, 

When our Pa he says so; 



158 THE SCHOOLBOY'S FAVORITE 

An' Ma she fixes my little cape-coat 

An' little fuzz-cap ; an' Pa 
He tucks me away — an' yells " Hoo-ray !" — 
An' whacks Ole Gray, an' drives the sleigh 

Fastest you ever saw! 

Over the river an' through the wood 

Now Grandmother's cap I spy : 
Hurrah fer the fun ! — Is the puddin' done ? — 

Hurrah for the punkin-pie ! 

An' Pa ist snuggles me 'tween his knees — 

An' I he'p hold the lines, 
An' peek out over the buffalo-robe;— 
An' the wind ist blows! — an' the snow ist snows! - 

An' the sun ist shines! an' shines! — 
An' th' ole horse tosses his head an' coughs 

The frost back in our face.— 
An' I' ruther go to my Gran'ma's 

Than any other place! 

Over the river an' through the wood 

Now Gran' mother's cap I spy : 
Hurrah fer the fun ! — Is the puddin' done ? — 

Hurrah fer the punkin-pie! 



THE SCHOOLBOY'S FAVORITE 159 

An' all the peoples they is in town 

Watches us whizzin' past 
To go a-visitun our Gran'ma's, 

Like we all went there last;— 
But they can't go, like ist our folks 

An' Johnny an' Lotty, an' three 
Er four neighber-childerns, an' Rober-ut Volney 

An' Charley an' Maggy an' me! 

Over the river an* through the wood 

Now Grandmother's cap I spy : 
Hurrah fer the fun ! — Is the puddin' done ? — 

Hurrah fer the punkin-pie ! 



160 ALBUMANIA 



ALBUMAN1A 

Some certain misty yet tenable signs 

Of the oracular Raggedy Man, 
Happily found in these fugitive lines 

Culled from the album of 'Li^abuth Ann. 

FRIENDSHIP 

FRIENDSHIP, when I muse on you, 
As thoughtful minds, O Friendship, do, 

1 muse, O Friendship, o'er and o'er, 
O Friendship — as I said before. 

Life 

"WHAT is Life?" If the Dead might say, 
'Spect they'd answer, under breath, 
Sorry-like yet a-laughin' :— A 
Poor pale yesterday of Death ! 

LIFE'S HAPPIEST HOURS 
BEST, I guess, 
Was the old "Recess."— 

'Way back there's where I'd love to be— 
Shet of each lesson and hateful rule, 

When the whole round World was as sweet to me 
As the big ripe apple I brung to School. 



ALBUMANIA 161 



Marion-County Man Homesick abroad 

I, who had hob-nobbed with the shades of kings, 

And canvassed grasses from old masters' graves, 
And in cathedrals stood and looked at things 

In niches, crypts and naves ; — 
My heavy heart was sagging with its woe, 

Nor Hope to prop it up, nor Promise, nor 
One woman's hands — and O I wanted so 

To be felt sorry for ! 

BIRDY! BIRDY! 

THE Redbreast loves the blooming bough— 

The Bluebird loves it same as he; — 
And as they sit and sing there now, 

So do I sing to thee — 
Only, dear heart, unlike the birds, 

I do not climb a tree 
To sing — 

I do not climb a tree. 



WHEN o'er this page in happy years to come, 
Thou jokest on these lines and on my name, 

Doubt not my love and say, "Though he lies dumb, 
He's lying, just the same!" 



ii 



162 THE LITTLE MOCK-MAN 



THE LITTLE MOCK-MAN 

THE Little Mock-man on the Stairs- 
He mocks the lady's horse 'at rares 

At bi-sickles an' things, — 
He mocks the mens 'at rides 'em, too; 
An' mocks the Movers, drivin' through, 
An' hollers " Here's the way you do 

With them-air hitchin-strings ! " 

"Ho! ho!" he'll say, 
Ole Settlers' Day, 

When they're all jogglin' by, — 

" You look like this;' 
He'll say, an' twis' 

His mouth an' squint his eye 
An' 'tend like he wuz beat the bass 

Drum at both ends— an' toots and blares 
Ole dinner-horn an* puffs his face — 

The Little Mock-man on the Stairs! 

The Little Mock-man on the Stairs 
Mocks all the peoples all he cares 

'At passes up an' down ! 
He mocks the chickens round the door, 
An' mocks the girl 'at scrubs the floor, 
An' mocks the rich, an' mocks the pore, 

An' ever'thing in town ! 



THE LITTLE MOCK-MAN 163 

"Ho! ho!" says he, 

To you er me ; 
An' ef we turns an' looks, 

He's all cross-eyed 

An' mouth all wide 
Like Giunts is, in books. — 
"Ho! ho!" he yells, "look here at me," 

An' rolls his fat eyes roun' an' glares, — 
"You look like this!" he says, says he— 
The Little Mock-man on the Stairs! 

The Little Mock— 
The Little Mock — 

The Little Mock-man on the Stairs, 

He mocks the music-box an' clock, 

An 9 roller- sofy an' the chairs; 
He mocks his Pa an' spec's he wears; 
He mocks the man 'at picks the pears 
An* plums an* peaches on the shares ; 
He mocks the monkeys an* the bears 
On picture-bills, an* rips an* tears 
'Em down, — an* mocks ist all he cares, 
An* EVER'body EVEu'wheres ! 



164 SUMMER- TIME AND WIN TER- TIME 



SUMMER-TIME AND WINTER-TIME 

IN the golden noon-shine, 
Or in the pink of dawn; 

In the silver moonshine, 
Or when the moon is gone; 

Open eyes, or drowsy lids, 
'Wake or 'most asleep, 

I can hear the kitydids, — 

"Cheep! Cheep! Cheep!" 

Only in the winter-time 

Do they ever stop, 
In the chip-and-splinter-time, 

When the backlogs pop, — 
Then it is, the kettle-lids, 

While the sparkles leap, 
Lisp like the katydids, — 
"Cheep! Cheep! Cheep! " 



HOME-MADE RIDDLES 165 

HOME-MADE RIDDLES- 
ALL BUT THE ANSWERS 

I 

NO one ever saw it 

Till I dug it from the ground ; 
I found it when I lost it, 

And lost it when I found: 
I washed it, and dressed it, 

And buried it once more — 
Dug it up, and loved it then 

Better than before. 
I was paid for finding it— 

I don't know why or how, — 
But I lost, found, and kept it, 

And haven't got it now. 

II 

Sometimes it's all alone — 

Sometimes in a crowd ; 
It says a thousand bright things, 

But never talks aloud. 
Everbody loves it, 

And likes to have it call, 



166 HOME-MADE RIDDLES 

But if you shouldn't happen to, 
It wouldn't care at all. 

First you see or hear of it, 
It's a-singing, — then 

You may look and listen, 
But it never sings again. 



THE LOVELY CHILD 167 



THE LOVELY CHILD 

LILIES are both pure and fair, 
Growing midst the roses there- 
Roses, too, both red and pink, 
Are quite beautiful, I think. 

But of all bright blossoms— best- 
Purest — fairest — loveliest, — 
Could there be a sweeter thing 
Than a primrose, blossoming? 



168 THE YELLOW-BIRD 



THE YELLOW-BIRD 

HEY! my little Yellow-bird, 

What you doing there? 
Like a flashing sun-ray, 

Flitting everywhere: 
Dangling down the tall weeds 

And the hollyhocks, 
And the lordly sunflowers 

Along the garden-walks. 

Ho ! my gallant Golden-bill, 

Pecking 'mongst the weeds, 
You must have for breakfast 

Golden flower-seeds: 
Won't you tell a little fellow 

What you have for tea? — 
'Spect a peck o' yellow, mellow 

Pippin on the tree. 



ENVOY 169 



ENVOY 

WHEN but a little boy, it seemed 
My dearest rapture ran 

In fancy ever, when I dreamed 
I was a man— a man 1 

Now— sad perversity! — my theme 

Of rarest, purest joy 
Is when, in fancy blest, I dream 

I am a little boy. 



James ^"hitsamh (filers ^"arka 



I have felt more interest in the Hoosier poet's 
work of late than in almost anything else which 
has appeared in a literary way. I tell you James 
Whitcomb Riley is nothing short of a born poet 
and a veritable genius. He gets down into the 
heart of a man, and in a most telling way, too. I 
thinkheisalaterHoseaBiglow, quite as original as 
the latter and more versatile in certain respects . I 
own a good deal of enthusiasm for this later prod- 
uct of Indiana soil, this delineator of lowly hu- 
manity, who sings with so much fervor, pathos, 
humor and grace, and who has done things, is it 
not correct to say, which will long be remembered, 
perhaps, which will outlast the more laborious 
work of some of the older and more pretentious 
poets. — Oliver Wendell Holmes. 



Neghborly Poems. 

Thirty- six Poems in Hoosier Dialect, including 
The Old Swimmin' Hole and 'Leven More Poems, 
with proems. 

The Old Swimmin' Hole, etc. , first appeared over 
the nom de plume of Benj. F. Johnson, of Boone, 
and attracted wide -spread attention before the 
identity of the real author was discovered. 

To this series have been added twenty-four 
more poems of the same character under the same 
pseudonym, which have not heretofore been pub- 
lished, with six photo -engravings, and entitled as 
above. 

They are idiomatic, droll and charming. True 
to nature, delightfully felicitous in expression, 
refreshing and genuine. 

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Neghborlt Poems are idiomatic, droll and charming. 
True to nature, delightfully felicitous in expression, refresh- 
ing and genuine. — Indianapolis Sentinel. 

Mr. Riley has discovered the essential beauty of nature in 
the fields, and of pathos and sentiment in the heart of man, 
and has interpreted it with a fidelity and simplicity which 
will make his poetry live long after the elegant transcription 
from books and the inspirations from foreign life have faded 
away into the nothingness which is the doom of all artificial 
and imitation.— Providence Journal. 

When one begins to feel sour with the world and life and 
himself and everybody else, how refreshing and rebuilding 
would be the reading of When the Frost Is on the Punkin. 

—Daily News, Birmingham, Ala. 

Mr. Riley, more than any other American poet who has 
essayed this style of poetic writing, has enriched this pecu- 
liar field with gems that will constitute a permanent part of 
our literature.— Omaha Bee. 

A collection of exquisite dialect studies by "Benj. F. 
Johnson,* ' of whom the true story is told by J. Whitcomb 
Riley. Sir Edwin Arnold classes Riley among the greatest of 
living poets, and that this is not over- praise the present 
volume attests.— Baltimore Daily News. 

The charm of these intensely reflective poems is hard to 
describe. Their note is always genuine and their allurement 
curiously certain.— Providence News. 

Benjamin F. Johnson of Boone— a "rare Ben Johnson" 
indeed— fathered these cute country whims, some of the best 
that the truest poet of to-day has given the world, in the 
quaint dressing of the Hoosier dialect— Evening News, Buffalo. 

The poems included in this neat volume are idiomatic, 
droll and charming. They depict common things in an un- 
usually natural way and touch many sympathetic chords. 

— The Treasury, New York. 



Sketches in Prose and Occasional Verses. 

Originally published as The Boss Girl and Other 
Stories. Twelve graphic sketches, each prefaced 
by a poem. 

The stories are unconventional and told simply, 
with a subtle humor. They are intensely sympa- 
thetic with glowing descriptions and generous 
inspiration. They appeal powerfully to the hu- 
mane sentiment and the reader is soon lost in the 
engaging simplicity of the narrative. The poems 
cling in the mind and no one who reads them 
can easily forget "Tiny Tim," or " Old -Fashioned 
Roses," or the "Elf Child," with its now world- 
famous refrain, "The Gobbl-uns '11 git you— Ef 
you— Don't— Watch— Out ! ' ' 

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Riley is, above all things, the poet of childhood. The 
accent, the stammer, the mispronunciation of childhood- 
all this he is able to give with a startling fidelity to nature. 
And he understands the soul as well as the language of the 
childhood. In the volume to which I am alluding there is a 
portrait of a child-servant and of her mysterious fascination 
to the children of whom she is the companion as a teller of 
ghost stories that is one of the most .marvelous pictures of 
child-thought in literature. It is called "The Elf Child." 
It is a favorite piece of, recitation in America. Perhaps 
I am a little prejudiced, but one of the charms of 
Riley to me is the beautiful life he reveals in the western 
households of America. One can see from the intimacy of 
the relations between the servants and the: children and the 
household generally, the intensity and closeness of their 
joys, sorrows and fortunes— what depths of generosity and 
kindliness there is under t the hard, dry, pouter shell of 
American life in those bleak, desolate and cheerless regions 
of the pioneers of civilization. For instance, read the story 
of Mart Susan Clark in this collection, and if you can get 
through it with dry eyes and without a softening of heart to 
America and American life you must have a poor taste for 
literature or an extremely bad heart. 

In the volume before me there is one exquisite little sketch 
which can never leave one's memory. I alluded to the story 
some weeks ago. It is called * 'Where Is Mary Alice Smith?' ■ 
It is a thoroughly American story, and yet I think it will say 
more to an English than to an American reader; at least to 
an English reader who knows something of the social condi- 
tion of America. I have already commented on the sweet 
sense Mr. Riley gives of the intimacy and tenderness of the 
relations between the children and servants of an American 
household— relations that, to me at least, appear to make 
life so much tenderer, easier and more human than the fri- 
gidity of relations in our own households, with their strictly 
commercial basis. The portrait of the girl has that subtlety 
which is in nearly all Mr. Riley's portraits of childhood. He 
seizes and reproduces that indefinable wis tfulness— that curi- 
ously touching and tender mysteriousness that is about all 
childhood— the mysteriousness that partly suggested to 
Wordsworth the music and the eloquence of his greatest 
Ode.— Sunday Sun, London. 



Afterwhiles. 

Sixty -two poems and sonnets. Serious, pa- 
thetic, humorous and dialect. Full of vivid im- 
agination, tender emotions and reflections. 

"Where are they — the Afterwhiles — 
Luring us the lengthening miles 
Of our lives." 

No lover of true poesy will fail to find in this 
hook much to delight and thrill. The author with 
delicate fancy reveals the great heart of nature 
and makes beautiful the homely things of life. 
The serious poems show genius and a rare insight, 
the sonnets are living aspirations and the dialect 
touches those quieter chords so charming in true 
poetry. 

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It is easy, from his book of poems, Afterwhiles to see 
how the work of Mr. James Whitcomb Riley has grown 
so widely popular in the United States. Mostly his verse 
resembles Poe. But much more than that author he gives 
expression to the child -like simplicity which distinguishes 
Brother Jonathan among the nations in all matters of art. 
The poems in dialect are more enjoyable than the others for 
their humor and character.— The Scotsman, Edinburg. 

The name of James Whitcomb Riley is fast becoming pop- 
ular, and in his handling of dialect poetry he has been aptly 
called the Robert Burns of America. His poems need no 
introduction to a people who entertain for him more than 
the usual admiration given to her sweet singers. Mr. Riley 
can claim originality for his work ; it is a fresh conquest in 
the realm of distinct American poetry. His work is peculiar 
to himself and marks a departure in our national literature. 
He sings of commonplace things around us and invests them 
with exqnisite beauty and grace. He delights in calling up 
the fond memories of yore to clothe them with the fancy and 
fervor of his wondrous magical muse. The commonest ob- 
ject, the most prosaic theme becomes wonderfully alive and 
full of pathetic significance under his spell ; so that we are 
often reminded of Wordsworth by his manner : 

* 'Thanks to the human heart by which we live, 
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, 
To me the meanest flower that blows can give 
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. ' ■ 

— Christian Nation. 

The first thing that strikes the reader of James Whitcomb 
Riley is his originality. Here, evidently, is a man who 
would have felt the impulse to speak tunefully and to touch 
the springs of humor and of pathos had he lived before 
the invention of alphabets. In the absence of books, the 
lessons to be drawn from nature and from human life 
would have sufficed. With his own hand has been garnered 
his knowledge of the outer and of the inner world. He has 
seen with his own eyes, listened with his own ears, known 
in his own heart the sorrows and joys that he depicted. His 
landscapes are transcripts of his native woods and fields ; all 
the flowers, the trees, the buds, the manifold forms of ani- 
mal life, and all the relations of man to outward nature 
which we encounter in his pages are such as he has actually 
seen.— New York Sun. 



Pipes o' Pan. 

Five sketches and fifty poems. The sketches 
are separated by four hooks of twelve poems 
each. The stories are full of life and unflagging 
interest, told in the author's artless way. They 
are simply written, full of pathos and humor, and 
reveal a keen insight to human nature. 

The poems are hearty, inspiring and impressive. 
The subtler feelings are shown seriously and 
humorously with a climax that makes one eagerly 
and rapturously resign his visions to greet the liv- 
ing presence. The pictures are so deftly drawn 
that they seem to breathe with life. The half -for- 
gotten things dome back clearly and as bright as 
the noon-day sun and the happy heart brims over 
in memory of the days gone by. 

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His work in prose is really exquisite, though compara- 
tively few are acquainted with it. Here is the conclusion of 
one of his tales, published in the " Pipes o' Pan at Zekes- 
bury. " It is as simply natural as fact; as delicate as truth. 
It is at once so probable and so artistic that no one would 
venture to guess whether the writer created the incident or 
whether the incident created the tale. Here it is : 

"Well, Annie had just stooped to lift up one o' the little 
girls when the feller turned, and the'r eyes met. 'Annie, 
my wife!' he says; and Annie she kindo' gave a little yelp 
like, and come a-flutterin' down in his arms; and the jug o' 
worter rolled clean acrost the road, and turned a somerset 
and knocked the cob out of its mouth, and jist laid back and 
hollered 'good -good -good -good -good!' like ef it knowed 
what was up, and was jist as glad and tickled as the rest of 
us . ' ' — Omaha World- Herald. 

It is not to the taste of many readers to turn suddenly 
from tales written in a rude dialect to sentimental strains on 
' ' The Days Gone By ' ' and an « ' Old Sweetheart . ' ' Still , It is 
but fair to say that there is humor in the tale called "Mrs. 
Miller," a picturesque realism in "An Old Settler's Story," 
and that more than one of the author's narrative poems are 
genuinely pathetic— London Post. 



Rhymes of Childhood. 

Not for children only but of childhood days. One 
hundred and two dialect and serious poems. 

Mr. Riley quaintly brings before the reader his 
early hopes and ambitions. We feel again the 
charms which nature threw around us in the in- 
nocence of life, the cherished plans formed midst 
the simple duties of childhood, the ideals of lim- 
ited knowledge, the domestic attachments, the 
castles on high. The flowers, the birds, the glis- 
tening dew drop with its glory of the sunbeam, the 
dreamy noontide, the gleaming starlight, the 
chidings, the corrections, the raptures, the fears, 
assume shape by the magic wand of the poet. 
Care flies away as we once more enjoy the feasts, 
or fondle the pets or feel the bee sting of long ago. 

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James Whitcomb Riley's Rhymes of Childhood would be 
pronounced as addressed to grown people, rather than to 
children of the age and experience of those whose thoughts 
and feelings figure in these pages. It is a delightful book 
from cover to cover, and displays a rare Insight into the 
habits of mind of the child. The dialect, too, is true to 
nature, and seldom, if ever, overdrawn.— Overland Monthly. 

It is impossible not to give a hearty welcome to this bundle 
of rhyme with its tender human love and its irresistible hu- 
mor. Mr. Riley, at his best and in his narrow but attractive 
field, is inimitable. No poet since Burns has sung so close to 
the ear of the common people of the country . His * ' Hoosier ' ' 
lyrics and his Rhymes of Childhood come very near to the 
line of perf ectlon .— New York Independent. 

It is a wonderful thing to be able to look into a little child's 
heart and write of what is found there. James Whitcomb 
Riley's Rhymes of Childhood give evidence of this power 
which only a very few possess. They are all sympathetic, 
and have, besides, humor, pathos and the true poetic touch. 
— Ladies' Home Journal, Philadelphia. 

James Whitcomb Riley's simple verse has won a lasting 
place in the hearts of old and young, and the reasons for this 
are plain. He has a quick and fine appreciation of the beau- 
ties in what might seem to some only the commonplace and 
humdrum side of nature, and he opens our eyes to see the 
poetry in the very things that have seemed to us the dullest 
of prose.— Public Opinion, Washington, D. C. 

Mr. Riley is one of the most successful of our younger 
poets, and the cause is not far to seek. He has dealt with 
intimate and homely themes from the standpoint of the com- 
mon man. He has not tried to write epics, or dramas of 
Rome or India. He has dealt with life, love and death, 
childhood, manhood, womanhood— as men and women in 
the common walks of earth feel and touch them all, and his 
success is assured. He has no rival to-day in this work, and 
the work itself is likely to come into greater estimation each 
year.— Boston Transcript. 



The Flying Islands of the Night. 

A weird and grotesque drama in verse. In this 
book Mr. Kiley's peculiar genius displays a force 
and continuity not intimated in any previous 
work. The argument and plot are radically differ- 
ent from any known drama, fantastical in the 
highest degree and beyond question his most re- 
markably quaint and peculiar work, since in it he 
displays a spirit of ingenuity together with a depth 
and height of imagination that his work has never 
hitherto suggested. In fact, one high in literary 
criticism has said that "we may very safely doubt 
if this most strange and beautiful creation has any 
parallel in the range of purely fanciful and ideal- 
istic verse. Its theme, its startling poise and sus- 
tained flight, its capricious buoyancy and ever- 
varying conceits, its 'quips and cranks and wan- 
ton wiles'— all conspire to mark it, signally and 
conclusively, as the most deliciously intrepid and 
audacious performance ever yet contributed to the 
lists of poetic masterpieces. ' ' 

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The Flying Islands of the Night, by James Wliitcomb 
Riley, fully justifies the author in his attempt at a sustained 
dramatic effort, and had he published nothing else it would 
of itself give him a prominent place among the foremost 
poets of his time. It is more than verse. It is a poem.— 
Boston Traveller. 

So wild are the rythmical fantasies embodied in James 
Whitcomb Riley's new drama, The Flying Islands of the 
Night, that it requires a very robust imagination to keep 
pace with them.— Buffalo Courier. 

As the author states, this is ■■ Thynge of Wytchencrof— an 
Idle Dreme. ' ' This latest production of the popular Western 
author is a dramatic poem in three acts. The verse, while 
being neither heroic or lyric, partakes of the character of 
both. The entire poem is of the nature of a burlesque epic. 
—Philadelphia Item. 

A weird and grotesque drama inverse. In this book Mr. 
Riley's peculiar genius displays a force and continuity not 
intimated in any previous work. The argument and plot 
are radically different from any known drama, fantastical in 
the highest degree, and beyond question his most remark- 
ably quaint and peculiar work, since in it he displays a spirit 
of ingenuity together with a depth and height of imagina- 
tion that his work has never hitherto suggested.— Baltimore 
News. 

Mr. Riley now and then lays aside the dialect in which his 
earliest successes were achieved for the more accepted forms 
of spelling and construction, and both the poems named 
above are instances of this sort of departure from his first 
method. The *'01d Sweetheart" is a simple little reminis- 
cent poem of nine stanzas, each* of which occupies a page of 
the handsome flat quarto volume, with an illustration either 
in colors or monotint. In The Flying Islands of the Night 
Mr. Riley has attempted a bolder and more original flight. 
It is a weird, fantastic drama, the scene of which is laid in 
Spirkland, one of the flying islands of the night.— New Orleans 
Times- Democrat. 



Green Fields and Running Brooks. 

Over one hundred miscellaneous poems, com- 
prising the serious, humorous, sentimental, de- 
scriptive dialect and child lore in which Mr. Riley 
is so happy. Facile princeps, Nature's true expo- 
nent, he gilds the homely with poetic glory and 
makes beautiful the trivial things, idealizing the 
commonplace in human life and nature. The 
versatility of the author is manifested in the wide 
range of the imagination disclosed In this collec- 
tion of his poems. There is a tone of human near- 
ness that challenges comprehension and compels 
appreciation by the feeling that the poet has met 
the exigencies of life, reveled in the surprises of 
experience and dreamed in the languor of ro- 
mance. The verses are a source of unending de- 
light. 

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James Whitcomb Riley's new poems, Green Fields and 
Running Brooks, are mostly In dialect, In which he ex- 
presses, with many a delicate touch, some of the best feel- 
ings of human nature in humble life. In the better compo- 
sitions that deal with the beauty and spirit of woods and 
fields he has sympathetic insight. They are worthy of high 
praise.— Globe, Boston. 

Green Fields and Running Brooks is the latest volume of 
James Whitcomb Riley's poems we receive from the Bowen- 
Merrill Company of Indianapolis . It is an enticing title , and 
its promise and allurement is well fulfilled in its pages. Mr. 
Riley is a singer by nature, and of nature, human and extra - 
human, and he has given no sweeter and truer songs to us 
than are in this book.— Republican, Springfield. 

Under the pretty title , Green Fields and Running Brooks 
—a phrase which almost insists on continuing itself into 
" Sermons in Stones"— the most recent production of James 
Whitcomb Riley, come to us, and prove the Hoosier bard to 
be a very prolific as well as a very sweet singer.— Christian 
Union, New York. 

The Hoosier folk -child's chubby face, with his wide round 
eyes, is the true theme of James Whitcomb Riley's new book, 
for, though occasionally he may treat of other subjects, 
sooner or later the poet returns to the little provincial Amer- 
ican, whose world is bounded by the highway fence and 
stable lot, whose playmates are the ducks and chickens, and 
the "boy" that shucks the corn.— Public Ledger, Philadelphia. 

When Mr. Riley publishes a new book the people who read 
rejoice. This last volume of his is as refreshing as a May 
morning, and is full of charming pen-pictures, dainty bits of 
landscapes, homelike turnings of white paths through green 
fields are suggested with an almost pathetic vividness. 
There are some more of his delightful child studies, the 
merit of which lies somewhat in the wonderful child dialect, 
but mainly in the accurate and true interpretation of child- 
character. The poet understands the child perfectly, and 
places himself before us with absolute justice and a splendid 
sympathy for his most childish whims. Mr. Riley has dis- 
covered child-lore, and he has shown the true child-lore and 
made us see the relation between it and folk-lore.— Nassau 
Liter ary Magazine. 



Armazindy. 

HOLIDAY EDITION, 

With Photogravures of Country Scenes. 

Square 12mo, Cloth, ornamental $2.00 

Same In Half Calf 4.00 

Same In Full Calf 5.00 



4 



The holiday edition of Armazikdy has been issued by the 
publishers for the many admirers of Mr. Riley who desire a 
special presentation volume, and something different from 
the regular edition. It is square 12mo in size, printed on 
hand-made paper with uncut edges and gilt top. The illus- 
trations consist of a new portrait of the author and Ave 
country scenes in photogravure. 



An Old Sweetheart of Mine. 

A 10 by 12 flat quarto, illustrated with colored 
and monotint plates. The engravings are by the 
best artists of Boston, and the book is handsomely 
bound in combination cloth. 

This favorite poem, so thoroughly enjoyed by 
the thousands of Mr. Riley's admirers, has been 
sympathetically sketched and portrayed with such 
artistic skill as to make it one of the most beautiful 
books yet published. 

10x12 Flat Quarto, Colored and Monotint Plates. 
Combination Cloth, full gilt, $2.50. 



The admirers of James Whltcomb Riley's poetry will find 
in this volume a charming holiday gift. It is handsomely 
illustrated in water colors and crayon, and hound in boards, 
with illuminated title.— National Tribune, Washington, D. C. 

Among the daintiest of dainty holiday books is the gift edi - 
tion of James Whitcomb Riley's An Old Sweetheart of 
Mine. The text is in quaint lettering, with every page en- 
riched by pretty designs from pen and brush.— Baltimore 
American. 

Persons on the lookout for a beautiful and pleasing gift 
book should examine this work. The poetry has the usual 
lightness and lilt of most of Riley's productions, and the 
artist has cunningly and originally pictured it in sundry 
monochrome and colored pages. The book is handsomely 
bound and put up in a box for mailing.— S£. Louis Republic. 

An Old Sweetheart of Mine, one of the sweetest, ten- 
derest and most fanciful poems ever penned by James Whit- 
comb Riley, is published in a handsome gift volume. Each 
stanza fills a page and is accompanied by an exquisite illus- 
tration. The paper, letter press, binding and illustrations 
are all of the finest, and the whole is an excellent specimen 
of the bookmaker's art, and forms a fit setting for a poetic 
gem of the first water— Indianapolis Sentinel. 

A dainty thing among the new books is the holiday edition 
of James Whitcomb Riley's An Old Sweetheart of Mine. 
Many, if not the most, of Mr. Riley's productions are well 
adapted to illustration, but no better choice could be made 
for the first attempt in this line than this especial favorite. 
Each stanza is given a page and is accompanied by a draw- 
ing in monochrome or colors. Printed on heavy paper and 
with decorated cover, the book is a handsome and attrac- 
tive one for gift purposes.— Indianapolis Journal. 

There is but one adjective in the language that fitly de- 
scribes this book, its poetry and printing, and that is: ex- 
quisite. It's a dandy, and no more suitable gift to an artistic 
friend could be found.— New Orleans Picayune. 

One of the most charming editions of any of the Hoosier 
Poet's works has been issued by his publishers. It is a holi- 
day setting in book form of An Old Sweetheart of Mine, 
and will make a beautiful present.— New York Sun. 



Old Fashioned Roses. 

Sixty-one selected Poems and Sonnets, pub- 
lished in England. It is a very dainty 16mo, 
printed on hand-made paper with untrimmed 
edges, gilt top and very tastefully hound in blue 
and white cloth. It contains a great variety of 
serious, humorous and dialect pieces, and makes 
a handsome presentation edition of some of Mr. 
Riley's choicest poems. 

16 mo, Combination Cloth, gilt top, untrimmed, 
$1.75. 



Richard W. Thompson 




Col. RICHARD W. THOMPSON 
1850 



FROM WASHINGTON TO LINCOLN 



Personal Recollections 

OF SIXTEEN PRESIDENTS 

BY RICHARD W. THOMPSON 

Ex-Secretary of the Navy 



Bound in Buckram, gilt top, with numerous full 
page portraits in photogravure, two volumes, 8vo, 
price, $6.00 ; half leather, $8.00 ; full leather, $10.00. 
Sent prepaid to any address in the United States, 
Canada or Mexico on receipt of price. 



The Bowen=Merrill Company, 

INDIANAPOLIS AND KANSAS CITY, U. S. A. 



The most notable book that has appeared for many years 
Is the "Personal Recollections of Sixteen Presidents ,' ■ by 
Col. Richard W. Thompson. He is the only living man who 
could have written it, having known personally every Presi- 
dent of the United States but the first two, Washington and 
John Adams, and also many leaders of the American Revolu- 
tion, among them being Lafayette. He knew Jefferson sixty - 
seven years ago, and was present at the inauguration of 
Andrew Jackson. He was president of the famous Panama 
Commission, is the oldest living member of Congress but 
one, and during the administration of Hayes he entered the 
cabinet as Secretary of the Navy. At the close of this long 
and brilliant career, Col. Thompson has given to the world 
his own personal recollections of the Presidents, in which he 
does not refer to documents, but draws entirely upon the 
wonderful resources of his memory. It is remarkably full 
and accurate as to the principal transactions of all the ad- 
ministrations from the beginning of the Government , thor- 
ough and exhaustive as to the origin and growth of politi- 
cal parties. 



Col. Thompson Knew Personally Every President Since Adams. 

Of Washington and the elder Adams he writes as he learned 
of them from the Revolutionary men who were personally 
acquainted with them; but after those two he discusses each 
of the Presidents as he saw and knew them. All of these 
rulers of the nation have long since passed away, and Col. 
Thompson, in his eighty -sixth year, is left as the connecting 
link between the present and the stirring past. Now that 
his active intercourse with the world has ceased, and the 
bustling affairs of life are laid aside, he communicates to the 
public in this book his recollections of over three score years. 
He alone of those living saw Jefferson, Madison, Monroe, 
Lafayette, and knew every President of the country since 
their day. With his death the world would have been de- 
prived of the valuable impressions of one who knew person- 
ally sixteen Presidents, had he not devoted his last years to 
recording his vivid thoughts and recollections. 



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